


Nearer To Thee

by ahestele



Series: Nearer To Thee [1]
Category: Eminem (Musician), Hanson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahestele/pseuds/ahestele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marshall Mathers is a cop with an attitude and Taylor Hanson is an ex-pop star and they are both on the path of a serial killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it. Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I have ever loved and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.

The phone dragged him out of a drunken sleep and Marshall rolled over on his back, muttered a curse when he hit a heavy body next to his.

He barely remembered picking someone up, or coming back here, or fucking her, neither. He prayed she drove because he couldn’t afford another letter in his file. They’d try to bump him down to uniforms again and fuck if he was gonna wear a monkey suit ever again in this life. It wasn’t his fault his life went down the crapper after he made detective; he was almost sure it wasn’t.

“You gettin’ that?” an annoyed voice groused from under the threadbare comforter and Marshall almost told her to get it her damn self if she wanted to so bad. He wondered if women would ever stop reminding him of Kim. It might help if he’d quit going home with blondes.

He finally reached over to his landline because he was too cheap to get a cordless and coughed into the receiver before he could help it.

“Goddamn, Mathers, you fuckin’ someone or what? Thing rang twenty times.”

“Or what.” Marshall croaked rubbing his face and blinking at the water spot on his ceiling.

“Well zip up the trouser snake. We got a cold one and a suspect in the box.”

“The Rose Killer?”Most of the fuzziness evaporated when he said the name the fuckwad reporters had made up for the murderer. He sat up and blinked hard, willing the headache and nausea away. They caught a suspect?

“He knows all the details but he’s got an alibi. It’s hinky as hell. You gettin’ down here or what?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marshall got up naked and walked to the bathroom trailing the cord behind him and didn’t bother hanging up when he pissed.

“Corner of fifteenth and Lafayette and, fuck, Mathers, are you peein’?”

“Yup.” Marshall barked, scratching his ribs.

“You got no fuckin’ decorum, you know that? Jesus Christ.”

The dial tone hit his ear and Marshall hung up the phone and put it on the commode.

“Leave.” He said when he walked back in the bedroom and the woman putting on her hose shot him the finger. She had long stringy blond hair with dark roots, a big nose, and raccoon eyes from where her mascara smeared.

She exited in a wiggle of hips and slam of a door.

“Bye.” Marshall said to the empty apartment reeking of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke. His hamster Beretta blinked at him from the corner of the fish aquarium that was it’s cage and let out a pellet.

“You got that right.”

In fifteen minutes he was in his beat to shit Toyota Camry and on the way.

*~*~*~*~*~~*

3:15 a.m.  
1156 15th Avenue  
Detroit, MI

The body of the victim lay in an alley, posed like all the rest. The victim's arms stretched out on either side amidst the garbage, his legs lay together overlapped at the ankle and there were precise cuts in a line across the victims brow; the crown of thorns. All victims had been naked except for a swath around their waist and at the victim’s bare feet lay, obscenely out of place in the refuse and dirt, a cluster of red roses still dewy from the florist. The victim had longish dark hair; they all did; the oldest had been twenty-one, the youngest seventeen. Marshall could not stop seeing his brother Nathan laying there with roses near his poor dead feet until he polished off a bottle of vodka that evening.

What a fuckin’ waste.

“Same M.O.?” Marshall asked flashing his badge and stepping under the police evidence tape. He wore his street gear: hoodie, Piston’s cap, loose jeans and Jordan’s. What he liked most about making detective was dressing as he liked, especially when he told the chief it helped his cred with the snitches and the pimps. Like he could have dressed any other way; trade in one monkey suit for another.

“You look like crap Mathers.”

“Yeah, good to see you, too. Same M.O.?” he repeated and Poblanski nodded with a sigh.

“The very one. Homo freak with a Jesus fix.”

They’d classified them as hate crimes on pressure from the city’s Gay and Lesbian Rights Task Force, but it made no sense to Marshall since there was evidence of semen in the rectal canal and the victim’s mouth. The precinct’s profiler had spouted off a bunch of psychological mumbo jumbo about it making perfect sense, and, whatever. The shit did not add up to him.

“Any signs of struggle?” Marshall asked, even though he knew the answer was no. No scratches, no skin under the fingernails, not so much as a bruise anywhere but the area of sexual contact. It’s like these kids gave themselves to him on a silver fuckin’ platter and said,“Kill me! Ask me how!”

“You know there ain’t.”

“Anyone see anything?”

“It’s the bar scene. Goddamn meat market. The bartender said he ‘might’ have seen the victim with a ‘hot guy’ that had blond hair. That’s it: hot guy, blond hair. We got DNA but nothing to match it and no hits off CODIS.”

“We got a suspect?”

“Yes and no.”

“Don’t gimme that. We got someone or not?”

“Yeah, but I told you – hinky.”

“Explain.” Marshall kept himself from bitching at forensics so they’d hurry the fuck up and finish. He wanted the kid covered. The crowd kept gawking and he saw two news vans out front, probably more of the print media lurking around. He didn’t want the kid’s family to see anything on the news before they identified him.

“Got a call on this one at eight p.m. if you can believe it. Someone gave us the intersection said to get there as fast as we could and hung up. That’s it. If he’d a mentioned the Rose Killer maybe the suit at the phones wouldn’t ‘a blown him off. After, the genius remembers and we track down the number; it’s from an apartment and we show up, find the guy asleep.”

“That’s plenty of time, man..”

“Guy wasn’t alone. Had his girlfriend with him and she swore he was at a restaurant at the time of the killing and then at home. Waiter remembered him; the maitre’d. He’s a regular. It checks out.”

“That’s fuckin’ impossible.”

“You tellin’ me?”

“Where is he? The station house?” Marshall could feel himself iching to get his hands on this guy. He could break him; he knew he could. One uninterrupted hour and he’d know.

“Look, Mathers…”

“I’m the goddamn primary, Les. Don’t start with me.”

“No, I know that, no one’s freezing you out.”

“You bet your ass they ain’t.”

“Only we got circumstances. We got kind of a situation here…” They were at the squad car and red flags began to go up when Les started using words like ‘circumstances’ and ‘situation’. Marshall didn’t like them. They were words his partner started to use then he channeled the brass dicks upstairs.

“What fuckin’ situation?”

“Aside from the fact that the suspect has an ironclad alibi, you mean? The suspect's kinda famous. Had some hit songs a million years ago.”

“I don’t give a fuck if he sang for the fuckin’ pope!”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s high profile…”

“I’m going.”

“Look, Mathers, come on, I’ll be in there with you…”

“Later.”

“Mathers! Goddamnit!”

Marshall left his partner sputtering in the street and revved the engine out of the crime scene.

If the perp had an alibi they couldn’t hold him for long. If the perp had some money he made a thousand years ago he was a flight risk, too. They were on borrowed time.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~

The precinct looked sad under the yellow street lights, a squat, cinderblock building that looked smaller than it’s four stories. The parking lot was always full, even at almost four a.m. and the squad cars hunched down asleep in the garage next door behind the chain link fence with the razor wire. No rest for crime in this town, ever.

Marshall swung into a parking space with ‘reserved- administration’ on the front and sped out the car hanging his badge from a chain around his neck.  
He’d move the car before the boys upstairs came in after their designer lattes.

*~*

“Gimme the file. Where you holding the suspect?” Marshall asked the rookie at the desk, nodding over a can of Coke.

The kid sat up like someone shoved a poker up his ass and almost knocked over the Coke on a bunch of reports. Marshall couldn’t tell if it was because the kid was five seconds from a wet dream or if Marshall’s reputation preceded him. Bruce Marshall Mathers , the Third and the chip on his shoulder. “Which one?”

“THE suspect.” Marshall leaned over and bore into the flawed green marbles of the kid’s eyes and saw the vulnerable Adam’s Apple move under the black tie clip. The file was handed to him and he snatched it.

“Holding Room Five. Chief Dellamore…”

“I’m interrogating the suspect.”

“But Chief Dellamore…”

Marshall left the flustered kid at the desk and stalked down the hall.

*~*~*~*~

Before he went in he took a few seconds, and he didn’t have many, to watch the perp from behind the one-way glass and review the suspect’s info.

Couldn’t see much. He already didn’t like what he did see.

Early-to-mid-twenties, lanky, almost skinny, but not quite. He sat on the folding chair, legs stretched under the table wearing faded jeans and trainers with no socks; the suits that picked him up hadn't dicked around. A leather jacket that had seen better days but wasn’t off the rack, and some kinda thick knit scarf with tassels, no less, rounded out the fashion statement. That’s all Marshall could see besides the spill of blond hair, girl-long, falling all over the grimy surface of the interrogating room table, over the bent arm that cushioned his head, one hand visible in a loose fist, long fingers graceful in sleep.

The arrogant fucker was asleep.

Marshall flipped open the manila folder. Mr. _Taylor Hanson_ was cutting some serious Zs in there. Twenty-five, still a kid, six-one, hair blond, eyes blue.

Most guilty perps did not, in Marshall’s experience, sleep when they got caught. The usually fell into the scared crapless pile or the I-can’t-wait-to-talk-about-it pile. When Bundy got busted he didn’t shut up for twelve hours.

But that was just speculation. Marshall could speculate with the best of them, but this was different. This guy knew something; Marshall could feel it in his bones, something big. He was gonna find out what it was.

*~*~*~*

The door shut in a slam and Marshall watched the perp startle out of sleep, hippie blond hair falling into blinking blue eyes and tops of his knees banging the bottom of the table.

Marshall stared at him a minute, watched the graceful hand sweep the hair off his face between thumb and forefinger, and for a second, just one, thought someone had fucked up major because this couldn’t be a guy. No way.

Then things came into focus: the tiny bit of shadow on his chin, the square jaw, the way the perp met Marshall’s stare with a level one of his own. Face was pretty like a girl’s, too. Cute little snub nose, perfect mouth, longass dark lashes framing sky blue eyes with smudges under them. But they looked right at him bold as fuck, those eyes. You might think he was a fag until that stare hit you. As if he wasn’t being questioned for murder; as if butter wouldn’t melt in his goddamn mouth. It wasn’t like women didn’t have that stare. Women just checked him out before they got it; human nature.

Marshall didn’t believe in walking in and trying to ingratiate himself right away. That always felt like the most fake thing to do, and he could never pull it off. He liked to watch; wait. A lot could be learned from what a suspect did when faced with silence.

The suspect leaned back in the chair and silenced him back.

Marshall finally had to break the silence first. He hated that.“‘Sup?”

“Should you be in here alone?”

“You got something to be scared about?” Marshall countered.

The guy shrugged and ran hand through his hair again, making it fall in feathers and waves all around his face. His beautiful, haggard, face. That said something.

“No. That’s just what they do on ‘Law and Order.’”

“This ain’t no TV show.”

“No shit.” The words weren’t defensive, or even aggressive, just tired. “Are you going to ask me questions, or what? I’ve been here two hours. My ass is falling asleep on this chair.”

Marshall flipped open the file and scanned the info sheet.

“Taylor Jordan Hanson. Can I call you Taylor? They tease you in school ‘cause of your name?”

“It’s Tay. No one calls me Taylor. Secondly, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t go to school. My mom taught us at home.”

“No shit?” Kim had made noises about that when she first got pregnant until she did a little research and found out what an expensive pain-in-the-ass that could be.  
“Nope.”

“You have anything to drink tonight, _Tay_? Maybe tied one on, got a little loose with your girlfriend?”

“I had a glass of wine at dinner and I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“A’aight. Date? One-night stand? Says here your girlfriend vouched for your whereabouts this evening.”

“Michelle is my roommate. We share an apartment in Rochester Hills.”

“Ex?”

“She’s a lesbian.”

“Oh.” Marshall didn’t ask if that made Taylor Jordan Hanson gay. One myth most people had was that all gay people knew and liked each other. He’d worked a few hate crimes to know that was B.S., and most lesbians and gays were more likely to be segregated than be all chummy.

“And it’s not just her. A whole restaurant saw me. We had a late dinner then stayed for the house band and wine. Then I was home with Michelle. We watched movies then went to sleep.”

“You working with someone? Seting up those kids to get hit?”

“Oh, please.” Hanson dug his hands in his pockets and threw his head back so the long blond hair fell in a caramel and flaxen wave over the metal of the chair. Marshall found himself watching the curve of Adam’s Apple, and the long neck as it disappeared into the knit scarf. His eyes were closed so tight the lashes stuck out in starry points. “Don’t be sick. I called it in because I can’t stand it any more. I know how it looks. I don’t care what you think.”

“Well you better fuckin’ care, people are fuckin’ dyin’!”

“I know that.” Hanson flipped his head back up and the sky blue was midnight, dark and tortured, the smudges under his eye became bruises, the lines around his mouth deepened and he looked both older and younger than before. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Marshall leaned over, right in his space, and Hanson didn’t even flinch, “How did you know where the body was?”

“Because I saw it.”

“You saw the murder? You didn’t call nobody, the fuck’s wrong…”

“In my head. I saw it in my head.”

Marshall stared at him, trying to make the words make any kind of sense.

“I see them in my head.” Hanson whispered, and for a second Marshall looked in those beautiful, tortured eyes and believed.

“Them?” He finally said because they’d been caught in each other’s stare too long before he even noticed.

“I saw others. I think—I didn’t know what they were. I thought I was making this shit up, from fatigue, or…fucked up memories, I don’t know.” For the first time Marshall stepped back and noticed more. The nails bitten to the quick, bleedy looking cuticles around the edges, the skin stretched taut across the handsome face /pretty. Motherfucker’s pretty/ like when someone hadn’t slept in a week, the underlying thrum of restlessness.

“You on something? You using?”

Hanson let out a bitter bark of a laugh and ran his hands over his face then through the hair. Feather. Fall. Marshall bet that drove all the little girls wild back in the day. “No. Not for four years.”

“What was your poison?”

“Cocaine. Look, I know what I saw.” The freaky bottomless stare again and Marshall sat back in the chair playing chicken with their stares. Hanson could win that with anyone, though.

“You’re telling me you’re some kinda psychic?”

“No,” Hanson looked away, the word goosing him so he squirmed on the metal chair. “I don’t know what it is but I can’t…sleep without seeing them, I never know when it’ll happen and you have to stop it, okay? I’ll do whatever you want, but you have to….” His voice, cracked, the bloodshot sky blue became shiny sapphire and Marshall saw the thin string holding the man in front of him together. It was close to snapping, pulled tight, fraying, and Marshall thought this wasn’t the first Taylor Hanson had been strung up like that, but it might be the first time the holdings quit.

Then all hell broke loose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it. Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I have ever loved and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.

4:45 a.m.  
42nd Precinct  
Interrogation Room 5

 

“Don’t say anything else, Tay!”

“This interview is OVER detective.”

Marshall stood then got pushed aside as people flooded the room. Poblanski looking apologetic, Chief Dellamore in her designer suit and spiked heels that made Marshall feel like midget, and a chick in a HER matching suit and helmet hair that could only be a lawyer. What threw him were the short granola girl, and a tall accounting looking guy. How the hell did they get in here? What, were they running tours now?

“You called my brother?” Hanson said to the short girl who glared up at him with her hands on her granny-skirted hips. Her face looked like it had some kind of Asian, some Filipino in it maybe, gamin eyes and a rosebud mouth and she probably had a hot little bod under the baggy sweater and birkenstocks.

“They wouldn’t tell me where you were and you were gone for hours! They took you like the fuckin’ Gestapo! What was I supposed to do?”

“Let’s not use inflammatory language like ‘gestapo’, shall we?” Chief Dellamore’s deep low voice that had been compared to honey and steel both spoke over people’s chattering and the lawyer chick turned to her with what Marshall called ‘lawyerly indignation.’

“This is outrageous! Has Mr. Hanson been charged?”

“Who are you?” Hanson demanded while Marshall leaned on the wall and rubbed his neck, almost seeing the case walking away from him.

“She’s your lawyer, Tay. Don’t answer anything else.” Hanson’s accountant brother said.

“I don’t need a lawyer! I haven’t done anything!” Which was about the most naiive thing Marshall had heard in his life.

“I’m going to have to insist Mr. Hanson be released immediately.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Poblanski’s rough Detroit accent interrupted. “Chief, with all due respect, the perp…”

“EX-cuse me!” The lawyer chick contested.

“The sus-- _Mr. Hanson_ \-- called in the location of a murder. We had to bring him in.”

“I can’t find fault with my detective’s reasoning Miss….?”

“Whittinghill. Be that as it may, Mr. Hanson’s alibi has been confirmed by his roomate, several dozen dinner customers at Regina’s on Park, AND the doorman at their bulding.”

“So he can go home now.” Hanson’s brother said firmly. Hanson had sat back down and was massaging his temple like he had a mother of a headache. Marshall recognized the pinched look from when his Aunt Betty got migraines.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Chief Dellamore stated with finality.

“Oh, but I’m afraid it is.” Lawyer Whittinghill returned and Marshall saw Dellamore's claws come out of the expensive manicure. He wasn’t gonna step in the middle of that throw down for love or money.

“Don’t tell me my job, Ms. Whittinghill and I won’t tell you yours.”

“I meant no disrespect." Which was a flat-out lie.

“I’m sure not. Allright,” Dellamore said to the entire room, her deep voice carrying over Hanson’s brother and Granola Girl talking to Hanson in hushed tones while he shook his head, and Poblanski muttering to the Chief under his breath. “I want the room cleared of everyone except Mr. Hanson, his attorney, and myself.”

“Chief, I’m the primary!” Marshall burst out and the Chief gave him a look that would freeze Satan on the spot.

“I need to talk to you in my office afterwards Detective Mathers.”

“But I already started the interrogation!”

“WHICH happened without legal representation, thank you very much.” Lawyer Chick snapped and Marshall wanted to wipe the smirk right off her face. “Mr. Hanson is a celebrity. This sort of publicity can be very damaging to his reputation.”

“Oh, give me a break.” Hanson said, speaking for the first time in awhile. “I haven’t been a celebrity for a long time.”

“No offense Mr. Hanson, but I was referring to your brother.” Lawyer Chick said crisply. “Isaac Hanson has one of the most respected talent management companies in the entertainment business and this sort of sistuation can be detrimental…”

“Will everyone just shut up?” Hanson’s tired voice actually cut through the reteric because it was so low. A pink blush had sprouted on both cheeks but Marshall watched him stand and, whoah, he looked all kinds of different when he squared his shoulders and flicked the hair out of his eyes. Real tall and confident, and, what was that word? Regal, yeah. Marshall could just see him throwing a diva-fit during a sound check to get shit right.

Hanson looked at Dellamore. “I’ll talk to you but I don’t need a lawyer.”

“Tay…” Hanson’s brother put a hand on his shoulder.

“ _No._ ” Hanson said.

“Mr. Hanson I would encourage you to retain counsel. I wouldn’t want us to be accused of violating any of your civil rights.” Chief Dellamore said, playing eye death-ray with the lawyer chick.

“Fine, whatever. Can we just do something? I’m tired.”

“Yes, right away. Everybody out. You too, Mathers.”

“Chief!”

“Come on.” Poblanski tried to steer him out the door with the other civvies and Marshall twisted out of his hand.

“It’s my case!”

“Why can’t he stay?” Hanson asked and everyone turned to him, Marshall included.

“Because it's my call Mr. Hanson.” Dellamore said in a voice that allowed no arguing and Marshall slammed out of there avoiding the bruised sky blue eyes at all costs.

“Mathers. Mathers, come on! You ain’t off the case…”

“No?” Marshall spat heading for the break room to get some coffee since fatigue had started to mug him with both hands. “I ain’t in there, so how am I not out? I’m the one talked to him first, so how am I not out Les?”

“She’s probably just doin’ some damage control is all. I told you to back offa this until tomorrow, I _told_ you. You never listen.”

“I had him talking, Les. I had him trusting me.” Marshall slammed the crappy ancient refrigerator with his fist and someone’s plastic packet of Ramen soup fell on the floor. Marshall kicked it on general principal. He’d eaten his fill of that shit at the trailer park on The Mile; fuckin’ soup every night while his mom was a two-pack-a-day smoker. Selfish bitch. He could be starvin’ the day before payday and still not eat another packet of that nasty fuckin’ shit.

“So, what do ya think?”

Marshall sipped the coffee that tasted like the bottom of someone’s shoe at this time of night, and cracked his neck a couple of times before he answered.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he did it.”

“Ironclad alibi.” Poblanski sighed, heaving his bulk onto the ratty couch. Poblanski had nothing to go home to either except an old hound dog named Bones. His first wife had left him thirty years ago, the second one fifteen. Marshall looked at him sometimes and wondered if that’s what his life was gonna be: married to the job, bringin’ home bitches and talking to his goddamn hamster for company. Poblanski carried an extra forty pounds he didn’t need, wore suits that didn’t fit him, and had dandruff.

“That ain’t why.” Marshall sighed and sipped some more shitty coffee. “Just ain’t feelin’ it.” He didn’t go on and mention what Hanson said about going all ESP about the killings. He wished he believed the kid was a couple of fries short on his Happy Meal but he didn’t. Marshall had met people who were; you had to on this job.

He’d rounded up people who thought aliens from Mars were after them, who had seen Elvis, who swore radiation from their microwave made them shoot their neighbor. He’d even run across the really twisted fuckers a couple of times; the ones whose eyes didn’t just look tired and bruised like Hanson’s but pinwheeled with madness as they relayed how they’d killed the victim and why and how and it was such a beautiful, wonderful thing, couldn’t everyone see that? Hanson didn’t look like that.

“Should prolly just go home.” Poblanski said, though he didn’t sound real enthusiatic about the idea. “I’m getting’ too old for these hours. I should retire.”

“Yeah, yeah. You been saying that forever. You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Who’d keep my ass from getting fired?”

“You been on this beat three years already. Watch your own goddamn ass.”

Marshall snorted then straightened as the Chief stuck her head in the door. “My office.” She looked at both of them then disappeared again.

“Shit.” Marshall muttered and his partner shrugged in resignation.

*~*~*~*~*~

 

“I left word that you not speak to Mr. Hanson. Did you get that message?”

“You did?” Marshall stalled, trying not to drop the uncompromising hazel eyes. He always felt like he’d gotten sent to the principal’s office when he got called in here. The heavy volumes of police procedure manuals on the shelves and the large framed degrees on the wall all reminded him of every admin office he’d ever been in as a kid. He was sure his habitual authority problems didn’t come from being ‘threatened by a female authority figure’ like the precinct shrink said but from the fact that Dellamore was the spitting image of his high school principal. “I didn’t hear nothin’…”

She made a steeple touching the tips of her manicured fingers and narrowed her eyes at him from where she sat behind the industrial gray monstrosity of her desk.

“Officer Tunney said he told you and you proceeded anyhow.”

“I’m just gonna go….”

“Stay.” Dellamore said like his partner was a dog and Poblanski let his bulk fall back on the imitation leather chair looking uncomfortable and unhappy. “You’re both in this.”

“Les didn’t do nothing, Chief, I…”

“Mathers.” Dellamore sighed and Marshall quit. She got up and walked around her desk heels tapping on the cheap tile, and Marshall fought the urge to stand, too. Dellmore was tall, taller than Poblanski, and in the high heels she looked like a giant. A giant in a designer suit and tasteful jewelry. Marshall was only five eight and hated it. Sitting on the edge of her desk and rubbing at one temple she gave another sigh then met his eyes.

“What did Mr. Hanson say to you about the murders?”

“ I asked him the routine stuff: where he’d been, had he been drunk…” Marshall stalled.

“Did he mention anything out of the ordinary?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t dick around with me, Mathers. I’m not going to see my daughter off to school this morning and I’m not happy about that. Did he mention having some kind of,” the Chief hesitated over the next word, “vision about the crime.”

Marshall nodded at length and saw Poblanski’s bushy eyebrows raise up onto his receding hairline. “Yeah. He mentioned that.”

“Did you call Kwong?” Dellamore asked, using the name of the precinct shrink and Marshall sat up straight.

“You didn’t gimme a chance, Chief!”

Instead of slamming him down she crossed her arms and nodded. “That’s true, I’ll give you that one.”

“The perp’s saying he’s psychic?” Poblanski asked

“I don’t know. I don’t think he knows.” Dellamore said, rubbing her neck with one hand. “We just know his alibi for last night checks out and this has the potential for becoming a huge headache if we don’t handle it right.”

“No offense Chief, but I never even heard of the guy.” Marshall said and Dellamore gave him a tired smile.

“You must not have had teen-age daughters in 1997.”

“Naw,” Marshall agreed. Hailey hadn’t even been born then and he’d been in a monkey suit trying desperately to get out of it. “I was into L.L. Cool J.”

“They had several top ten hits before falling out with their record company and going independent. Chelsea had that damn ‘Mmm-bop song blasting from her bedroom at all hours.”

“ _They_ sing that song???” Poblanski suddenly exclaimed and they both looked at him. Poblanski’s jowly face got kind of pink. “I got nieces! Gimme a break! My sister’s kids drove her nuts with that song.”

“So they’re major.” Marshall allowed and Dellamore shook her head.

“No, Mathers. They are one of the city’s favorite sons. They are right up there with Motown, the Pistons and Chrysler. They won two Grammys and to this day contribute to the city’s youth programs.”

“And one ‘a them’s a nut job.” Poblanski finished with a sigh.

“Well, that nut job is the only clue we have to these killings.” Dellamore said then turned to Marshall, “That's why I'm transferring this to Gianelli and Reed.”

“What!?” Mathers stood off the chair, heart dropping at the words. “This is my case! I’ve done the legwork and kept on forensics and I know every goddamn detail!”

“And I want you to work with them, but you are a liability to the department that I can't risk right now.”

“So what do you want me to do, huh? Promise to be a good boy? Cross all my t’s and dot all my fuckin I’s? You got it!”

“Mathers, siddown!”Poblanski meaty hand tugged on his arm but Marshall pulled away glaring at Dellamore’s calm but weary hazel eyes.

“You routinely disregard official orders, you step on toes without number, and you did not call for a psych consult when Mr. Hanson obviously has some problems with reality….”

“I don’t think he’s lying.” Marshall said recklessly and heard Poblasnki sigh in defeat next to him.

“I didn’t say he was lying. I said he had problems with reality. He’s had well documented problems with drug use and depression since the accident that killed his family in 2003 and he’s been in rehab at least once. I know we have nothing to go on yet but if you think I’m going to tell the mayor that an ex-pop star had a ‘vision’ about the serial killer and my most notorious detective believes him you are mistaken.”

“Chief, this ain’t right…” Poblanski said, his face not just unhappy but troubled now.

“I know. I’m sorry, but I can’t risk this.” Dellamore didn’t look unsympathetic but it didn’t mean dick to Marshall. Okay, yeah, he’d ruffled some feathers, didn’t kiss ass when he was supposed to, didn’t shut up when he was supposed to, but he did his job and he did it well. And this was _his_ case, goddamit!

“I’m good. Just ‘cause those two been here since Christ was a baby doesn’t mean I ain’t good.”

“You are good,” Dellamore said, matching his furious stare with her own calm, green one. “But when it comes to operating within the confines of procedure they’re better.”

“That’s BULLSHIT!”

“Mathers!” Poblanski remarked.

“You can’t give me that and you know that!” Dellamore talked over both of them.

Mathers glared at her so angry he could feel his hands shaking, but maybe that was just fatigue and the dump of adrenaline in his system from the rage.

He knew what kind of case this was. A headline case; a career-making case. Those two golden boys had his case now were all about that, and he wasn’t. He didn’t give a shit if he made lieutenant or got a commendation or got his picture in the goddamn paper. He just wanted to stop the sick fuck that was killing young, long haired boys. If he had to piss people off to do it, too fuckin’ bad.

“We’ve all been here too long too early in the morning. I’ve taken the liberty of having a copy of the file made so everyone’s on the same page. This isn’t the only case we have going, Mathers. Remember that. Now go home and I don’t want to see either of you here before noon tomorrow. That’s an order.”

Marshall took off the minute she dismissed them, ignoring Poblanski’s calls to, hey, hold up just a minute, Marsh!

All the way home he couldn't get those bruised blue eyes out of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it. Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I have ever loved and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.

9:30 a.m.

The phone jarred him out of sleep and he cursed, rolling over on his stomach to grope for the receiver.

“’Sup.” He grunted, rubbing his face with the heel of one hand.

He hadn’t gotten to bed until almost six, too pumped up on adrenaline and anger and that crappy coffee from the break room. He’d complained to Beretta while cleaning his cage and giving him food, and a piece of carrot for listening to Marshall bitch. He’d tried to watch TV or listen to music but ended up just staring into space thinking about the case. The case and Hanson and how Marshall had ended up in this predicament when a few years ago he had a family and a life and some kind of plan for the future.

So much for that.

“Mathers?”

“Chief?” Marshall sat up, phone wedged in on shoulder and both hands cupping the throbbing weight of his dick. He wished he could remember dreaming about something that gave him a hard on. And now he had to pee.

“I need you to get to Rochester Hills right now. The case just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”

“Rochester Hills?” He repeated, still kind of stupid from sleep. He didn’t process nothing well until a shower and some Mountain Dew. “There ain’t another one?” Because Jesus fuck if the killer was escalating this quickly they were all doomed.

“No. I’m at Hanson’s place. That’s all I can say right now; I’m on a cell. Just get here. Remember the address?”

“Yeah. I’m back?” Marshall was already on his feet and digging in his drawers for a clean shirt.

He heard Dellamore sigh and wondered if she’d been home at all. She had a grown daughter at college and one in first grade, a surprise just when she and the husband had decided to get divorced. They did anyway even if that made Dellamore a single mom with crappy hours. Good thing she could afford good help and the husband was too busy screwing stewardesses to contest.

“Hanson refused to talk to anyone else. You must have made quite an impression on him last night.” Dellamore’s voice was dry.

“I thought I had.”

“Well you did. Get your ass over here.”

“On my way.” He clicked off and ran for the shower.

*~*~*~*~*

The Roanoke Apartments sat at the edge of Rochester Hills so they almost didn’t fall in the snooty zip code. Marshall parked his car on a hill and pulled on the emergency break taking in the low rock walls, small green lawn, and huge bushes that covered the split level apartments set back from the road. These weren’t any fancy red brick cribs that had sprung up like weeds the last ten years. These babies had been here for a while; probably considered real fly when they were first built. He caught himself liking Hanson for living here even if he was an ex-celebrity with enough money to go high end.

He guzzled the last of his Mountain Dew and tossed the plastic bottle in the back seat.

Once he walked around the corner looking for the entrance or apartment thirty-six he saw the guard in the small office and the cruiser. Dellamore’s car was there, too. He guessed they wouldn’t get as much flack for that here as they would a few miles up the road where everyone paid for privacy, anonymity, security, and quiet.

Once he hoofed it up three flights of stairs and knocked on the door. Granola Girl opened it, now in overalls, clunky sandals and a torn t-shirt. She really was a cute kid but her dark eyes looked right in his without compromise and had smudges underneath. He could tell she hadn’t had a good morning already.

“Thank god. Maybe you can talk to him.”

“Excuse me?” Marshall said before Dellamore’s voice called to him from inside.

“Mathers? In the kitchen.”

“This way.” He followed Granola Chick through the living room and he saw where they must put the dough. A huge entertainment system worth more than his car took up an entire wall, a piano crouched in the corner and a computer station took up another area so the couch and wicker chair cramped around a low coffee table. The place looked nice, though, with the kind of warm hominess that his own apartment had never achieved even after two years. He noticed the pictures on the wall as he walked, a mix of his and hers. Most had a whole slew of blond kids around two smiling adults, and another dark haired family with younger Granola girl in braces. One picture in a silver frame caught his eye: Hanson, younger, but not by much, holding a tiny ginger haired baby and looking up at a pretty dark eyed girl with a long sweep of shining chestnut hair. She stood behind him with her arms around his neck and smiled happily at the camera.

 _The accident that killed his family in 2003._ he remembered, and the pang of sympathy startled him. He wasn’t a robot, not so frozen he could look at autopsy photos while eating a jelly doughnut like some of the lifers could do, but he didn’t usually have trouble keeping things in perspective.

He was so busy looking at stuff he almost didn’t see the girl flopped on the wicker chair reading a book. At least he realized it was a girl when she looked up and the rounded femininity of her face countereacted the brutally short brown hair and guy clothes. A pair of friendly gray eyes crinkled at him when she smiled.

“Hey.”

“’Sup.” He returned wondering again if Hanson always had so many people around him. He expected Hanson’s brother to come out of the woodwork any minute.

“That’s Ellis. She’s with me.” Granola Chick said before nodding at where Dellamore stood with Mando their forensic specialist. They were bent over the small wooden dining room table and Mando had his surgical gloves on.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“No problem.” She left without comment and Marshall wondered if any of them had gotten any kind of sleep since last night.

“Yo, Chief.”

“Mathers. Meet the new wrinkle in your case.”

He liked that she was calling it his case again, but he’d wait and see. He wasn’t gonna be some glorified babysitter for a freaked out boy band singer and nothing else. She could forget that.

“What’s all this?” he peered at cream colored cards. They looked pretty normal with a stamp and address. They reminded him of wedding invites or something.

“Your perp got romantic, homes.” ‘Mando said, picking one up with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Mando was a stocky Latino dude that looked like he should be in a lowrider but was one of the sharpest motherfuckers’ Marshall had ever met. ‘Mando was only a second generation American but graduated valedictorian from his high school in the 311 and was one of the youngest forensics scientist on DPD’s payrolls ever. He fought the same battles Marshall did over being too young and not towing the party line, but he had a better temper and lots of education to back him up.

‘Mando opened the card so Marshall could see a bunch of writing covering up both sides, in neat, symmetrical lines with not even a cross out. A dark red heart had been painted on near the bottom, like with someone’s finger. A dark red heart…

“Is that…?” Marshall peered closer and ‘Mando nodded.

“It ain’t tempera paint. It must be love.”

“Fuck.” Marshall muttered and Dellamore nodded grimly.

“The latest one arrived this morning but he’s had at least four show up before. The dates correspond with murders. He hadn’t opened them until now and his roommate opened the last one.”

“The fuck didn’t he open them? Who doesn’t open their mail?” Marshall said, agitated. If they had this months ago, a month, they maybe could had stopped….

“He doesn’t open fan letters. Not anymore.” Granola Girl spoke up from where she leaned against the wall, hands in the pockets of the baggy overalls. “I opened this one for him because I thought it would cheer him up.” Her face said she really wished she hadn’t had that idea.

“And the piece de resistance, the big prize, the whole enchilada…”

“’Mando.” Dellamore warned and ‘Mando cleared his throat at GG’s flat stare. “Right. Sorry, Chief. Each card had some rose petals and a lock of hair. We’re betting they match all the victims.” He picked up a tiny plastic bag where dark strands of hair floated and another, larger one with crumpled dark red petals. Marshall could see another bag where the petals looked fresh and delicate, the pointed tip still white. Those must be the ones that came today.

Marshall stared at the evidence on the table trying to wrap his mind around all the implications. They’d gone from having no evidence but the killer’s DNA to potential fingerprints, handwriting, context clues. And all of it tied to Hanson; not just cause of some freak dream or vision. Strong ties specifically to him.

“’Mando could you excuse us for a minute? Ms. Branch, you as well.”

The girl grudgingly walked farther away to where Ellis sat and Marshall watched the boyish girl stand and they embraced, melting into each other. Ellis placed a kiss on her head and talked to her softly.

“Gentlemen.” Dellamore said sharply and Marshall glanced away quickly; saw ‘Mando raise his eyebrows and give a salute.

“Ima start taking some of this stuff to the van and get started.”

“Good.”

Alone with Dellamore Marshall kept staring at the array of cream-colored cards. There were no words for how freaky this made things. What he would give for a cut-and-dried suicide right now.

“I’ve put a push on the labwork and we’ll see what it tells us.”

“What if he really sees them, Chief?” Marshall aked in a low voice because he hadn’t seen Hanson and he hated talking about people like they were invisible. Besides, the whole living room/dining room was one open area and the lesbians were still within earshot, holding each other tight.

“Don’t start. Don’t you give me that. This isn’t the goddamn X-Files and I can’t call up Mulder and Scully to talk to him.”

“So what do you want me to do? Am I back or not?”

“Read one of the letters. He’s considered a target now as much as the other victims.”

But Marshall was already picking up one of the envelopes propped open and begun reading the painfully level, tiny cursive.

“You’re so beautiful Taylor; I don’t think anyone ever has been more beautiful than you. One doesn’t usually find someone that is both beautiful and talented; this is truly a great gift from god and one I hope you choose to stop denying soon. Your voice is god’s instrument; he gave it to you and you should make him proud by singing your wonderful songs like you used to. I know there’s still an audience out there and I’m sure everyone would be so excited to hear the three brothers of Hanson together again!”

Marshall almost barfed. He expected to read ‘OMG!’ any minute now.

“But I’m so sad, Taylor, so sad that you’ve chosen to stray me from god’s path. He is the resurrection and the light! John 11:1-53 and I’ve tried to stay true to the path but you won’t let me! It’s selfish and wrong how you keep taking me from my true destiny and the only way I can see to bring you into the kingdom of god is to for you to die so your soul could be cleansed in the waters of the hearafter.”

Marshall felt the blood run cold in his veins. It only got crazier from there.

“Then I could serve Jesus, don’t you see? We’ll both be where we belong and you’ll no longer make me commit sins of the flesh just so I can breathe again! It’s not fair to do this to me! I’ve never done anything but love you yet you keep me from my dream to serve god! Iwould never keep you from your dreams and I prayed for you when the accident happened. I prayed you would find goodness in your heart to love again yet you went with all those awful men and did dirty, sinful things! And you made me stray over and over!”

“Jesus fuck.” Marshall muttered as Dellamore talked quietly on the phone. This guy was completely nuts.

“You HAVE to give your life for us to be saved! It is written in Leviticus that to lay with men is an abomination and you are dooming both our souls to an eternity of hell….”

Marshll tossed the card on the table and ran a hand over his face.

He wondered how the killer knew Hanson was gay; how long he’d been stalking him, how he’d found out where he lived.

“I have an unmarked on it’s way.” Dellamore said like she read his mind. “We’ll put them on shifts.”

“They won’t like it.”

“Tough shit. They’re not paid to like it,” she focused her ice green eyes on him and he met them, sensing what came next. “I’m assigning you to Hanson. I want you to talk to him, see if he has any more information, get him to take a psych evaluation with Kwong….”

“Whoah, wait a minute I’m not gonna housesit him just because…” he glanced at the two girls and caught Granola Girl’s worried stare. “Just because he’s famous.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper.

“You’ve built a rapport with him and he refuses to cooperate with anyone else anyhow. You’re not off the case…”

“Then what the fuck am I???” He asked hotly. They were leaning over whispering into each others faces. “What do I gotta do? Move in? How am I supposed to find the perp if I gotta sit around here?”

“You won’t just be sitting and this is what I need you for right now.” Dellamore said firmly, the wall going up so high and thick in the ice green Marshall almost got a concussion. “Poblanski can do the lion’s share of the legwork and you can meet up after, but I am NOT having this dropped on my watch. Am. I. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Marshall muttered glancing away, the dull grit of his teeth echoing inside his head.

“Thank you.” Dellamore sighed, rubbing her neck with one hand. “Now go out on the porch and talk to him. When he realized what the heart was painted in he freaked out and shut down. Asked for you then wouldn’t do another goddamn thing.”

“Great.” He hadn’t intended this. He hadn’t told Hanson he was nuts because he didn’t think he was, but fuck, how was he supposed to stay on forensics and question people and go overt the crime scene if he was supposed to drive here every goddamn hour?

“I’ve got a meeting with the mayor’s PR people in an hour and I haven’t been home. I also need to talk to Ms. Branch. Call me if anything breaks.”

Marshall nodded.

“He’s out on the porch.” With that Dellamore tapped another number on her cell and started talking again.

Marshall took a breathe and walked over to the French doors, letting himself out.

*~*~*~*~*~

Marshall stepped out into the chill crispness of an October morning. It wasn’t snowing yet but it was cold, the clouds and sky that slate gray they got while they built up for a helluva blizzard.

He couldn’t believe Hanson had been sitting out here in jeans and a leather coat all this time. The puff from his breath mingled with the tendrils of smoke that curled form the dark cigarette at his fingers. /Cloves/ Marshall thought and took in the long legs bent up on the wooden bench and the long arms encircling them. Blond hair fell to his shoulders in messy waves and the profile showed knit brows and pale lips that parted to suck in the nicotine, throwing the cheekbones into sharp relief.

Marshall dropped down next him, leaned over to rest his forearms on his knees, and wondered how the hell he was supposed to do this. Or what the hell he was even supposed to do.

“You asked for me.” He finally said and Hanson exhaled slowly before stubbing the butt out in a potted fern. The patio was decent sized, done in 2x4 treated planks. It had a grill and plants in ceramic pots all over the place. It would have a good view except the foliage came up to the railing and over, obscuring the other houses down the hill and the horizon in the distance.

Hanson laced his graceful fingers together around his knees and looked downward, the fall of hair hiding his face.

“They made me tell them. You should have seen their faces.” His voice sounded rough and Marshall wondered if it was the smoke or the cold or if he’d spent the night crying. Maybe all three. “I expected someone to call the men in the white coats with the straitjackets any minute. It was ridiculous.”

“Your brother know?”

Hanson nodded. “He doesn’t know what to think. I don’t blame him.”

“He seemed real concerned.” Marshall said digging his hands deeper into his pockets. His nose felt cold.

“He is. He’s a good guy, just overprotective.”

They sat there a minute and Marshall watched one fine, long fingered hand tuck the blond strands behind an ear. A fine scruff showed along the tip of his chin and over the dimple there and the long lashes lifted to look into space.

“You didn’t look at me like that. Like I was crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Marshall said honestly. Hanson nodded like he’d agreed to something then turned to him and the bruised cast to the sky blue eyes almost hurt to see. The shadows under them were darker and he should have looked more like crap than he did. Even with the strain and the fatigue he was girl-pretty; blond and fine featured, not like Marshall’s weird pointy nose and skin that broke out when he ate too much chocolate.

“I’m not.”

“But they want you to talk to a shri -- a psychiatrist.” Hanson snorted looked back into the foilage spilling onto the patio.

“Will it help? Will it make things move faster?”

“Yeah.” Marshall said, wishing it didn’t feel like a lie. It could help if Kwong didn’t decide Hanson really was off his rocker. Then it could get a whole lot worse.

“Okay, then. Fine. I’ll talk to whomever they want.”

“Good.” Marshall nodded.

Hanson looked at his knees again and a faint blush sprouted on the sharp curve of his cheekbones. “I kind of had a meltdown earlier. I touched the… I touched it before I realized what it was. And I read…what it said and…” He seemed to shudder curling in on himself, expression stark, “I washed my hands for a half hour. I think your Chief thinks I’m a fucking diva now, or something.”

Marshall stayed quiet feeling kind of like a shrink himself. Shouldn’t Hanson be telling this to Kwong? But he seemed like he was gonna cooperate and that was the name of the game.

“They stuck you with me, didn’t they?” Hanson said quietly, not looking at him.

Marshall bit his lip and bought some time. “I’ll be here some, yeah. Chief wants to see what else you can tell us.” It wasn’t exactly a denial but his gut told him Hanson could smell a lie at a thousand paces. Ironically, most ex-junkies were real good at that: sniffing out B.S. before it got a good smell going. Being in that life, even for a little while, stripped all the rose colored lenses from the world because you better be able to know what was what if you didn’t want to go jonesin’ off your shit ‘cause of some bad deal.

“It okay if the shink talks to you today?” Marshall asked without correcting himself and Hanson gave him a smile that zinged him so he had to look away real quick. He hadn’t actually seen Hanson smile before and it made his face into something more than just pretty. Marshall saw, again, what must have made him so popular, and not just with the little girls.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I’m freezing my ass off, here.”

“Me, too.” Hanson agreed, unfolding the coltish legs to the ground and they stood, walking towards the door. “I won’t smoke in the house, though. It makes it smell musty.”

Marshall made a murmur of agreement.

They opened the door to the sound of arguing.

 

*~*~*~*~*

Dellamore and Granola Chick were talking head-to-head and the pretty little chick came to about the Chiefs non-existent bosom. Marshall glanced at Ellis and she shrugged and shook her head. Marshall agreed.

“I can’t believe you want me to leave right now. How can you want that?”

“Because your presence here just makes our job harder Ms. Branch. I can appreciate your concern but we will have an unmarked unit watchign the apartment round the clock and Detective Mathers will personally be taking charge of Mr. Hanson’s safety. Isn’t that true Detective Mathers?” Dellamore turned to him smoothly and Marshall hesitated only a second.

“Yeah.”

“He doing that under duress. I heard him.” Marshall felt Hanson’s eyes on him and remembered why he didn’t like those lesbian power-to-the-people women.

“Detective Mathers is very good at what he does and I have every confidence he will keep Mr. Hanson safe. I understand you are to leave on sabbatical for Spain this evening. I encourage you to keep with your plans.”

“I’m NOT leaving.”

“Yes you are ‘Shell.” Hanson spoke up and they both turned to him. “Ellis, tell her,” he appealed to the seated dykey chick and she shook her head in resignation.

“I’ve tried, dude. We’re both worried about you.”

“Hanson walked over and the short chick turned to him, features set in grim lines that softened when Hanson held both her hands in his. “Please. If you stay that just means they have to watch out for you, too. You’ve been planning this for a year. I’m not letting your life go to hell just because mine is.”

“I can go next year.”

“The tickets are non-refundable and so’s half the tuition. Come on, ‘shell. I’ll email you and call. I promise. Nothing’s happening to me.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Detective Mathers said so.” Hanson caught his eyes with a twinkle and Marshall caught himself smirking back. Confident bastard. He wasn’t sure if any of it cut any ice with Granola Girl, though.

“I’m not trying to hinder anything, but you don’t take of yourself for shit when you’re alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Tay, you didn’t eat for two days when I went to see my mom in Ann Arbor for the weekend.”

“I’ll make a note.” He knocked their foreheads together and they hugged tight, his long arms gathering her to him in a move so intimate Marshall looked away. Made him wonder if Hanson was just all touchy feely and it was a gay thing or if Marshall was just emotionally retarded. He hugged on Nate a whole bunch and his daughter, but he didn’t just go around bear hugging all his friends or co-workers. They’d think he’d lost his mind.

“You know you’re going. You’ve been packing for weeks so give it up. I’ll be okay.”

“Promise.” She muffled into his shoulder.

Hanson caught his eyes over the dark hair. “I promise.” Marshall held them a beat too long then looked over to watch the tendons on Dellamore’s back relax a little. _One more civilian out of the way. One less liability._ he read on her face and he agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More cop!Marshall and Psychic ex-pop star Tay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it. Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I have ever loved and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.

42nd Precinct  
10:45 a.m.  
Squad Room

“Well, he’s no more insane than we are.” Kwong said, flipping a sheet of blue-black hair over the silk of her dress jacket.

She barely came up to Marshall’s shoulders, five two in heels, and he’d had a crush on her forever just because she was so tiny she made him look tall. She had a fiancé, though, an Asian guy that picked her up in a Beamer and she’d started sporting a rock so big on her dainty hand Marshall wondered how she didn’t drag it on the floor.

“That ain’t saying much.” Poblanski loosened the knot on his tie and fanned himself. He was constantly hot no matter what time of year it was, the extra bulk as insulating as thermal underwear. Marshall liked to tease him about having hot flashes.

Kwong graced him with a smile and for once Marshall didn’t have to turn off the daydream about what she’d look like naked. There was such a thing as going so way beyond your league it was embarrassing and Allison Kwong fell right in that territory.

“So he ain’t making this shit up or nothing?” Marshall asked and Kwong shook her head.

“Or at least he firmly believes he’s having images of the crimes before during and just after they’re committed. This is no flaky new-ager either, contrary to how he looks. He’s very pragmatic and I believe he had a healthy dose of skepticism regarding anything like this until it happened to him. Unfortunately he’s also about three days from hallucinating since he’s operating on almost no sleep.”

“He says he dreams about them.” Marshall muttered and Kwong nodded, flipping pages on her chart.

“Firm sense of right and wrong, good, strong family ties. He came through a bout with addiction about four years ago and has been clean ever since. I know you know this, but this isn’t your guy.”

“Yeah, we know.” Poblanski sighed and Marshall watched Hanson step out of the corridor tying a striped earth toned scarf around his neck. He’d changed into a brown sweater and new-looking kahki cargo pants and even with the hefty bags under the sky blue eyes he left most women in here in the dirt. The waist of the pants hung low on his hips and they flopped over black Converse that made Marshall smile.

“Ain’t he a fruit?” Poblanski said without even lowering his voice and Kwong rolled her eyes.

“Damn, Les! He’s standing right there. You wanna alienate the fucking witness.” Marshall whispered, hoping Poblasnki’s rough Detroit accent hadn’t carried too far. Luckily, Hanson didn’t seem to have heard. He looked around, moved to a row of chairs against a wall and took a seat. Then Hanson pulled a ratty paperback book from this yarn bag he had slung crossways around his neck and started to _read_. Naw, he wasn’t their guy alright.

“Yes, actually, he is.” Kwong answered flipping more pages, “Pretty okay about it, too, for having a fairly religious upbringing. He was married in his late teens, a good old-fashioned shotgun wedding but it seemed to be going fine until the accident that killed mother and son. I remember when that happened.” Her tilted eyes look up, hooded in symphathy. “Sad.”

“You a fan, Allison?” Marshall teased and was delighted to see a delicate rose blush come up on her cheeks.

“Bite me, Mathers. I was twelve and he was absolutely beautiful. I had the CDs and the posters like all the other girls in my class.” Mathers caught himself thinking that Hanson was still pretty fuckin’ beautiful and moved on from that cracked out thought as fast as he could.

“Okay, okay! No need to get defensive, damn.” He teased her more, but she was on to him and gave him a narrowed glare above her smile.

“At any rate,” Kwong refocused, referring to her clipboard again, “He’s had a couple of short term relationships after that, both with men, and both while he was using, so there is that. None since he got clean, though he does ‘date sometimes’ whatever that means. No internalized homophobia that I can find, no conflict with his faith, which he admits isn’t the most profound but is by no means gone, no traumatic experiences with a member of the opposite sex, or at least none that he cops to. If it weren’t for the small fact that he sees dead people I’d say he’s an average guy. Average gay guy, anyway.”

“Is there anything wrong with him?” Marshall asked because they didn’t get a lot of average Joes in this business, at least not in the middle of a murder investigation.

“Well, yeah, he ain’t perfect, but it’s run of the mill stuff. He’s been treated for depression and was on meds for awhile but decided to stop when they made him sleep twelve hours a day, he said. He can be a little anti-social which would be a red flag except he lives with a roommate and has a healthy social life. Some isolation is not unusual for ex-celebrities. Look at Garbo or Onassis. He wasn’t quite on their level but same difference.” She was getting into it and Marshall let her go on, kind of fascinated in spite of himself. The simple ex-boyband member living on the interest from his glory days was getting fuller, gaining layers. “He has a cat, so he’s responsible enough o keep something alive even if he ‘forgets’ to eat sometimes, he’s carrying a truckload of guilt about the accident because he was driving, he paints.” Kwong shrugged and tapped the clipboard against her thighs. “That’s all folks. A little depressed and freaked out doesn’t crazy make.”

“So whadda we do? Sit around and wait for him to have another vision?” Poblanski asked.

“Basically.”

“I saw this on TV where they hypnotized this guy…,” Marshall said thoughtfully but Kwong was shaking her head before he got further.

“Yeah, I saw that episode, too. It’s hype, and a lot more complicated than it looks.”

“What’s complicated about making someone bark like a dog or something? They had this guy did that at a retirement party once. Funny as fuck.” Poblanski opined, wiping his brow with a yellowed handkerchief. Marshall swore he was gonna keel over one of these days.

“Nothing except we don’t want him to bark like a dog. If he sees what he says he sees we’d be taking him through a traumatic, dangerous experience. Besides, the liabity is huge and _I’m not_ going to be the one on the line if he goes nuts two years from now and shoots the mailman. “

“You said he was all stable and shit!” Marshall protested and Kwong shrugged diplomatically.

“He was also a junkie four years ago. People change and sometimes they change back. Have you seen what’s up with Courtney Love lately?”

“Crazy broad.” Poblanksi opined immediately. “Deserves to have her kid taken away you ask me.” It occurred to Marshall that his partner knew way too much about pop culture for being twenty years older than him.

“He’s been having the episodes practically from the time the murders began so it’s just matter of time before he has another one. Proceed at your own risk, gentlemen.” And she was was gone, clicking her way over to Hanson who had placed his book on his lap and rested one sharp cheekbone on his palm, eyes closed. He looked totally beat. The lashes lifted as Kwong approached him and Marshall saw Kwong smile as Hanson stood up, dwarfing her as he shook her hand.

“You’re on.” Poblanski sighed and Marshall sighed back, wishing he could go hound ‘Mando about the lab results for the rose petals and the cards. Wishing he could talk to him about the autopsy of the latest victim. Wishing he could do anything but go back home with Hanson and wait for him to go all Ghostbusters.

“They find the vic’s family?” He asked and Poblanski nodded, rustling around some papers on the cluttered desk.

“Blake Rinaldi, 21, college student at U of D. Friends said he only did the bar about once a month, usually to celebrate passing a test, and he didn’t usually trick. The bartender saw him leave with a ‘cute blond guy’ but none of his friends noticed. Guess this time was the charm.”

“Fuck.” Marshall whispered. Babies, they were all babies. The vics, Hanson, fucked up even more by this at twenty-six, probably even the perp.

“Soon as ‘Mando has the results I’ll buzz you.” Poblanski promised, heaving his bulk off the swivel chair he’d been on.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Feeling more like a friggin’ chauffer than a cop Marshall approached Hanson to take him home.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

“So did she say I was crazy?” Hanson asked, looking out the window at the passing traffic. His bag sat on his lap, one elbow propped on the door.

“Yep. Completely fuckin’ insane.” Marshall deadpanned and Hanson threw him a sharp look, sky blue eyes narrowed until he saw the smirk.

“Go to hell,” he smiled, then laughed as the long, pale fingers covered his eyes before sweeping blond hair off his face, caught between forefinger and thumb. The wide, dimpled grin caught Marshall off guard again, zinged him again. He couldn’t believe how much it transformed Hanson’s face from this tired-looking hippy guy with long blond hair to someone painfully attractive.

And that was the second time he’d thought something like that and maybe _he_ needed some extra sleep.

“Sorry. Naw you ain’t crazy.”

“What DID she say?”

“You know,” Marshall hedged. Even though Kwong hadn’t exactly said anything bad he didn’t know how much Hanson thought had been shared. “Just some background stuff. Said you knew right from wrong, had a stable family life. Shit like that.”

Hanson made a resigned sound and closed his eyes again and he looked like a weary civilian once more, beat and sleepy.

“Why’d you stop singing, man?” Marshall changed the subject before Hanson asked what else Kwong had told them.

“Because my wife and son died and I stopped giving a shit.” Hanson answered without opening his eyes and Marshall clenched the wheel tighter and kicked his fucking self. Real smooth. And he got on Poblanski for being insensitive.

The air in the car had gotten thick with discomfort and Marshall was about to reach over and turn on the radio just to put some sound into the silence when Hanson sighed and looked at him.

“I’m sorry. That was really rude.”

“No! Naw, man. Don’t apologize. I don’t know what I’d do if my kid died.”

Hanson nodded before asking, “So you have children?”

“My daughter. She lives with her mom.”

“You’re divorced, huh?”

“Yeah.” Marshall grimaced. “I get her every other weekend and Christmas.”

“That must be hard.” Hanson said, voice sympathetic.

“I fuckin’ hate it.” Marshall agreed, eyes on the road. “Feel like I’m missing everything, you know? Every time I see her she’s taller and more grownup. Freaks me out.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah,” but he was already reaching for his wallet while he steered with the other hand. It wasn’t like with a new baby when everyone expected you to pull out the photos. He hardly ever got to show off his baby girl.

Hanson took the small school picture of Hailey in a pink t-shirt with her hair caught off her face using those bobby pins that had a little butterfly or flower at the end. Kim must have forgotten it was picture day or Hailey would be in a dress. That or Hailey decided she wasn’t having the dress. She’d gotten pretty assertive lately. The fine flaxen blond fell to her shoulders and her wide smile beamed at the camera.

“That’s Hailey. She looks like her mama.” Marshall admitted, which was true. She had Kim’s straight little nose and good cheekbones.

“She has your eyes.” Hanson handed the picture back and Marshall smiled, pleased. He’d always thought so but no one had ever said it.

“You got one of yours?” He asked a second before he realized what he’d done because Hanson’s kid was _dead_ for Christ’s sake. Biting his lip he tried desperately to think of how to say ‘Forget it’ that wouldn’t sound even worse, but Hanson just blinked at him a little bit before nodding all of a sudden.

“Yeah, I do.” He poked around inside the bag on his lap before taking out a worn leather wallet and removing a black and white picture.

Marshall took the photo carefully and held it in one hand as he drove.

It showed a baby, a toddler maybe, sitting at a piano on someone’s lap, chubby fingers banging on the keys. His hair stood up in curls on his round head and a delighted smile stretched the toothless grin wide. Dark eyes looked right at the camera and it looked like he wore one of those baby jumpsuit things that snapped at the crotch, onesies, his mind rememebered. Marshall noticed the long, graceful fingers on the hands holding the baby’s waist and knew the child had been in Hanson’s arms.

“Cute.” Marshall handed it back, not quite able to look in Hanson’s face.

“Yeah, he was. He loved the damn piano. That and the drums. He could bang away at the things for hours. Drove my wife crazy.”

Marshall shot glances sideways as Hanson carefully replaced the picture in his wallet, an intense look of concentration on his face. His fingers were shaking just a little and Marshall had never in his life felt more like a fucking heel.

“Look, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“Don’t,” Hanson cut him off sharply and Marshall paused at a red light and turned to him. “Don’t do that. No one’s asked to see that picture for six years. I know people think they’re trying to help,” he corrected hastily, as if Marshall would think he was an ungrateful ass for criticizing people’s sympathies. “They mean well, but it’s like he never existed that way.” Marshall looked at the road and gunned it a little too hard into the green light because he could not look at Hanson right then. The look of profound sadness in Hanson’s shadowed blue eyes was killing him and he didn’t even know why.

He’d been around enough sadness to choke a horse. He’d told the mamas and the daddies and the grandmas that their loved ones had been shot, killed, suffocated. Found at the bottom of Lake Michigan or wrapped in a carpet on an abandoned lot. He’d heard more anguished grief than he could name and the expression on Hanson’s face still got to him.

“So, you know. Thanks.” Hanson gave him a weary smile, then lay his head back, eyes closed. A single tear escaped from a corner of his eye, trickling a shiny path down the fine curve of cheekbone and Hanson brushed at it absently, like one would scratch an itch.

Marshall decided he should maybe just shut up for the remainder of the ride.

They were almost there and Marshall thought Hanson had fallen asleep like he seemed to do off and on pretty much anywhere, when Hanson’s cell phone rang. Without opening his eyes Hanson reached into his breast pocket and flipped it open, holding it to his ear.

“Hi Michelle.”

Marshall smiled ruefully as the tiny voice could be heard filtering through the tiny cell phone. Marshall had one, courtesy of the department when he made detective. It wasn’t as nice.

“I’m on my way back from the police station. They had me talk to a shrink to prove I’m not a crazy junkie.” Indignant squawking from the receiver. “’shelle. Mi _chelle_. It’s okay. I don’t blame them. They said I was pretty sane. Are you on the plane?”

Pause.

“Good. Have a good time….No, you’re not allowed to call me more than once a day. No. You’ll be too busy, anyway. Michelle, Jesus Christ. You’re going to be in Spain with your lover. SPAIN, okay? Get your head out of your ass and show her some romance or I’ll go upside your head myself when you get back.” The laugh burst out of Marshall before he could stop it and Hanson grinned at him with a roll of his eyes.

“That’s Detective Mathers. He’d driving me back… No, the other one. Uh-huh…Going now. I. Am. Going. Now….” Marshall swore it looked like Hanson was blushing. “Give Ellis my love. Have FUN, you know, fun? I know you’re a serious lesbian but at least pretend. Love you, too. ‘Bye.” He clicked off and shook his head.

“She’s pretty gung-ho, huh?” Marshall asked and Hanson smiled fondly.

“Oh, yeah. I can’t believe she’s gone for three months. She….” Hanson’s phone rang again and he clicked it on, again without looking at the display.

“Hi, Ike.” Hanson listened, eyes lowered and brows knit, one hand picking at the weave of the shoulder bag. “I’ve just been to the precinct to talk to their psychiatrist. No, I didn’t call the lawyer… because I don’t need a lawyer. They aren’t charging me with anything or they already would have. No. Ike. I want to cooperate….because people are _dying_ that’s why! Whether it’s my fault or not is irrelevant. If I can help I’m going to. I don’t know… yeah, dinner sounds good. I did that one time, okay? Promise. Oh! You didn’t tell Zac, right? Don’t. He’s got midterms and the band and he can’t do anything anyhow. You know how he is…Just don’t, okay?… I’ll call you later… Yes… _Yes_ … love you. ‘Bye.” Hanson clicked off, put the phone back in his pocket and rubbed his forehead.

Marshall pulled up next to the complex and turned off the car and his stomach growled neatly into the new silence.

“Sorry.” He said without knowing why; it’s not like he had gas or anything.

“You didn’t have breakfast? It’s the most important meal of the day.” Hanson’s blue eyes joked and Marshall couldn’t believe he was blushing like a kid. “It’s almost lunch time. I’ll fix us both something if you want.”

“Uh.” Marshall said, following Hanson up the three flights of stairs, wondering what the rules were about witnesses fixing you lunch. It seemed a little differnet than bumming a few doughnuts at the local coffee place. Besides, what if Hanson was a vegetarian or ate wheat germ or something. He didn’t want to be rude but all that health shit made him want to barf. “I was just gonna get McDonald’s later…”

Hanson lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

Marshall’s phone buzzed and he clicked on, turning in time to catch the red apple that Hanson threw at him.

“Mathers. Tell me something good.” He nodded in thanks and took a bite. The sweet crispness took him back to school lunches and summer days hanging out with his best friend down at the playground. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an apple.

“Labs are in for the envelopes, “ he head Poblansnki’s gravelly voice, “Interesting results. Wanna come in or you want the dime-store version? ‘Mando could probably pronounce some of this shit better. Are you chewin’?”

“Apple.” Marshall with his mouth full

“That’s disgustin’. You sound like a fuckin’ cow.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You got it.”

He clicked off and turned to see Hanson walk out of the bedroom in a tight, faded t-shirt and jeans, his stocking feet padding the hardwood floor. He’d pulled the long blond hair back in ponytail that showed off his eyes and the sharp planes of his face. It also showed off the smudges under his eyes so he looked both younger and older.

“I’m gonna go talk to forensics about the envelopes,” he said, finishing the fruit in another two bites and swallowing. “There’s an unmarked car outside so you’ll be okay.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s unmarked.”

“Right.” Hanson bowed his head with an embarrassed smile and scratched his neck. “I’m tired.”

“Maybe you could crash for a while. You look like you could use it.”

Hanson shrugged, rubbing his arms with both hands, and wouldn’t look at him. “Maybe. I’m gonna make some lunch then we’ll see.”

Marshall’s attention got caught by dark movement under the kitchen table and a bushy black cat poked his head out between some chair legs and stared at him.

“That’s Bill.” Hanson said, reaching down to scratch the cat’s head before heading for the kitchen. “He get’s freaked out around strangers so he’s been in hiding for the last couple of days.”

“Yeah?” Hanson bent down on his heels and made kissy noises. The cat looked at him with it’s pear green eyes like he was a punk, then approached him cautiously. Hailey’s cat Tigger had gone with Kim when they split up. “Why’d you call him Bill?”

“I don’t know.”

The cat hacked out a raspy cough that startled the crap of him. “Fuck!” Marshall stood so fast he almost fell back and glared when he caught Hanson looking over his shoulder with an amused grin.

“Your cat spit on me, man.”

“Bad kitty. I know. Michelle almost ran over him one night because he was in the middle of the street with his eyes glued shut. We’ve talked to the vet about the coughing and he’s on some meds, but it’s just what he does. Sorry.”

“’Sokay.” Marshall wiped his arm on his shirt while the damn cat blinked at him and started washing it’s face with it’s paws. He had a star of white on his chest and the fur wasn’t the shiniest Marshall had ever seen, kind of matted in some places. And there was gunk on it’s whiskers. It was the ugliest cat Marshall had ever seen.

“I’ll be back in awhile.”

“Thanks. Enjoy that Mcdonald’s.”

“Yeah,” Marshall couldn’t help smiling and Hanson smiled back from the kitchen where he’d started pulling lettuce apart. A lock of blond hair escaped the ponytail and fell in his eyes.

*~*~*~*

Marshall went through the drive-thru.

The fries were cold.

*~*~*~

42nd Precinct  
Basement  
Forensics Lab, Rm. 14

“Marshall Mathers,” ‘Mando greeted, knocking knuckles at the stainless stee table next to where Poblanskin had perched himself on a swivel stool. Grooving low in the background was ‘Roses’ by Outkast playing on the small stereo on the counter. ‘Mando had what he called a ‘comprehensive’ work environment. Marshall had walked in to hear Everlast, TLC, Marilyn Manson, Tupac, and once, when someone got sideswiped by a train, a fifties oldies song where some guy wailed about where oh where could his baby be. The bitch had gotten fucked on Vodka and bennies and thrown thirty feet when the 10:45 clipped her, that’s where she’d be.

“Yo,” Marshall looked at all the envelopes arranged in a neat row. Below each one was the crazy ass card with the tiny close-together writing and below that the plastic baggies holding the hair and the rose petals.

“Welcome to my parlor, bro. I got the lowdown.”

“Hit me.” Marshall said.

“’Kay. First off, I been running tests on the roses found with the victims from jump, mostly ‘cause it was one of the only things we had...” ‘Mando held up a baggie full of crumpled dark red particles that were once flowers. “Found preservatives used by most of the florists in the area. They get ‘em in bulk from a couple of supply houses so that net didn’t get no smaller.”

“Tell me about it.” Marshall groused. They’d talked to all the florists in the areas closest to the crime scenes and asked about a ‘cute blond guy’ who’d bought roses those evenings. The ones that remembered, and there weren’t many, could only give them the names of the customers that paid with credit or check. The tedious follow-ups were still going on.

“Now these babies.” He picked up the plastic baggie that had petals from one of the envelopes, “These babies tell me a whole different story.”

“Yeah?” Marshall leaned closer to the baggie, anticipation thrumming in his veins. He knew when ‘Mando had found something; the forensics expert got almost lyrical in his discoveries.

“Oh, yeah. These babies were grown with love, yo. No preservative, no over-the-counter fertilizer for them. These babies,” Mando opened the bag and empited the bruised petals on his beefy palm, “Come high class. Found blood meal, Potassium meal, bone meal, even Limestone.”

“Like the rock?” Poblanski asked and ‘Mando nodded.

“It’s used as an organic rose fertilizer if you got the bucks. Whoever grew these babies not only went all natural; they care about the earth.”

“So you’re thinking someone’s garden? Private residence?” Marshall asked, his mind already tripping ahead of itself. If the fertilizer was that expensive not many people could afford it. They track down the distributors in the area and subpoena the client list if they got pissy, and they had a direction.

“Yes and no,” ‘Mando allowed. “Roses in someone’s garden, like in their yard? They got at least some trace of carbon monoxide, chloroflourocarbons, all the free radicals that hang out in the air.”

“Translation?” Poblanski asked before Marshall got to it.

“There’s no car exhaust on these babies, no smog, nothing. Not even a little. And, besides, bro. Roses of any kind are out of season right now. This is when you plant them not when they bloom.”

“So where’d the hell they come from?”

“Greenhouse is my best guess. The flowers these petals come from aren’t the kind they sell in the shops, neither, the kind everyone knows? These are pretty hard to come by. Someone’s probably growing them for competition or something.”

“They got rose competitions?” Poblanski asked, baffled.

“They got competitions for everything, homes.”

“So the victims only rated over the counter flowers.” Marshall muttered, picking up the baggie with the date of the latest victim.

“Apparently. But your pretty boy, he gets the rich stuff.”

“I ran a check on who supplies the high end fertilizer in the area and there’s only a couple of distributors. Here’s the info.” ‘Mando handed him a printed sheet and Marshall could have kissed him. It seemed like simple thing but it was one less they had to do. That’s what he liked about ‘Mando; he didn’t think anything of multi-tasking. If he had the time to make a call or run a check, he did it and didn’t quote his job description at you.

“You’re the best, man.”

“Believe it. I got the results of the latest vic but it’s SSDD on that.”

“Yeah, kinda figured.” Marshall sighed. He could recite them by heart: twenty one year old male, long dark hair, dark eyes, approximately 135 lbs. Death by exsanguination resulting from one cut to the throat with a sharp instrument, probably a knife or a scalpel. No signs of struggle, nothing under the fingernails, not so much as a bruise. No drugs except alcohol in the system and maybe a little weed or some ecstasy. Semen in the rectal canal, penetration occurring before death. Marshall was going to be seeing them in his sleep for a long time.

“The DNA from the envelopes matches the semen; no surprise. Your vic’s got himself one jones for that Hanson cat.”

“Yeah.” Marshall rubbed his face. “I gotta talk to Kwong.”

“She’s in court all day.” Poblanski said, “Said to call her tomorrow.”

“Word.” Marshall nodded. They had people going through every piece of garbage in the alley. He split the distributors with Poblanski so they each had one company to call and get names from.

He headed back to Hanson’s. For some reason if he didn’t check in every couple of hours he felt antsy.

*~*~*~*~*

He opened the door with his new key to find the low hum of the television and Hanson asleep propped up sideways on the couch. The remote hung loosely in one pale hand and his head was tipped back, hair escaping from the ponytail all over the arm of the sofa. Long dark lashes lay shut and the curve of his Adam’s Apple looked slender and vulnerable. Marshall could see a faint pulse beating below his jaw.

Marshall found himself just watching for a few minutes, for no damn reason at all. Noticed the delicate tracery of tiny blue veins in the closed lids, the dimple on the chin which showed more since Hanson must have shaved, the perfect profile and slightly parted lips.

Bill the cat sat perched on the back of the sofa, paws tucked beneath him and scraggly tail twitching every so often. He opened his eyes to blink at Marshall then closed them again, unimpressed.

Moving gently he pulled the remote from Hanson’s fingers before it fell on the floor and woke Hanson up. It didn’t matter because the minute it left Hanson’s hands the lids fluttered and Marshall found himself staring down at drowsy sleep glazed eyes.

“How did it go?” Hanson asked, voice husk with sleep and the tone did some freaky things to Marshall’s spine.

“I’ll tell you when you’re awake.” Marshall put the remote on the table, “Go back to sleep.” But Hanson was already sitting up and rubbing his eyes while the other hand pulled his hair free of the ponytail so it spilled over his shoulders in tousled blond strands. For some reason Marshall had to look away right then, the clenching in his gut hitting him by surprise.

“I’m awake. I won’t sleep tonight if I keep going.”

“You ain’t awake, man.” Marshall insisted and earned himself a sleepy but irritated glare.

“Fine. I’ll be right back and totally awake and then you’re telling me.”

“I don’t know…”

“Be right back.” Hanson called over his shoulder and Marshall heard the door to the bathroom close.

He paced because he really shouldn’t be telling witnesses where they were on their investigation, but this felt different. Hanson was working with them, basically. Besides, who the hell was he gonna tell?

He’d set up at the kitchen table with all his files and the cell phone when Hanson slipped into a chair. Damp strands clung to his hairline as the blond waves fell around his shoulders and his face looked clearer and more alert.

“Tell me.”

“Why?”

“So I don’t feel like a useless piece of shit while people are dying.” Marshall couldn’t argue with that, so he told him.

Hanson listened intently and thanked him.

They sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the evening until Marshall got up to go home and Hanson got up to get ready to have dinner with his brother.

“See you tomorrow.” Marshall called through the bedroom door and Hanson walked out in a tank top and sweats, pink and damp from the shower. His hair got darker when wet and lay in strands on his shoulders leaving drops of moisture on Hanson’s skin. He rubbed at his hair with a towel.

“Have a good evening.”

“Yeah, you, too. The unmarked unit is staying here to watch the place but I could try to get coverage…”

“I’m pretty sure Isaac has security, especially after this. He’s like that.”

“Dope.” Marshall nodded, inhaling soap and clean and moving back a step. “Later.”

“Detective?” Hanson said just as Marshall got to the door, and he turned.

Hanson had the towel draped around his shoulders. “Call me Tay.”

Marshall studied him for a second before agreeing, “Yeah, sure. Tay.” It felt intimate and strange to say it. “It’s Marshall, then.”

“Deal.”

“See you tomorrow.” Hanson pulled the towel from his shoulders with a smile and turned away, lifting the tank top off. Marshall caught a flash of smooth back and line of spine before he walked out.

He sat in his car for a few seconds trying to pinpoint why he felt off and realized he was one touch from being hard, the low, heavy feeling just behind his balls, waiting for contact.

“I gotta get laid.” He mumbled to no one before revving the engine and driving home to feed Beretta, watch TV alone, and nuke a frozen dinner.

He thought of going out but didn’t and woke up on the couch with static on the TV, alone.

*~*~*~*~

Detroit News  
Entertainment Section, p. 2  
About Town  
October 10, 200-

Title: Wining, Dining and New Love for a Hanson?

Our Entertainment Insider caught Taylor Hanson and brother Isaac dining at posh don’t-wear-your-jeans Italian eatery Ciro’s.

When asked the proverbial ‘Will there be a reunion?’ question Isaac replied with characeristic diplomacy. “The VH1 Band Reunited folks have been in touch but probably not right now, no. Zac plays drums for Ben Jelen out of New York and is in grad school, Tay has his painting, and I keep pretty busy.” Busy indeed! A steady roster of local and national acts call 3CG Media Management home and the group has just signed on to represent local break through artist Dionna Bell.

On the other hand when Taylor Hanson was questioned about the mysterious stranger in ghetto fabulous attire spotted arriving and leaving his home at all hours of the day and night the ‘handsome’ Hanson flashed his dimples and opted not to kiss and tell, “That’s a just a friend. We hang out sometimes. At least you got the gender right this time.”

Taylor Hanson came out as a gay man two years after the death of his young family in a car accident where he was driving. All three brothers have steadfastly refuted persistent rumors that this announcement was responsible for the breakup of the popular family trio. At the time of the accident they had been in the middle of a Midwestern tour supporting their second critically acclaimed independent release.

Taylor Hanson has had several successful shows at the local Pinemont Gallery.

His earlier comment was in reference to the story in The Detroit News EI (8/31/07). The reported male visitor at the Rochester Hills apartment Taylor Hanson shares with Art History student Michelle Branch turned out to be Branch’s longtime girlfriend Lawson Ellis. Was our face red!

EI is sure about our reporting this time, Tay!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall talks to a priest, gets wet, and takes a ride. Tay wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it.  
> Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I love and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.  
>  **Dedication:** For everyone that likes to read them as much as I like to write them.  
> 

MARSHALL

The Asshole Brigade went into high gear after the article, which Marshall wouldn’t have even seen if someone hadn’t left it on his desk with a big red heart drawn around it. He didn’t read the goddamn papers. Most of them just reported on the police blotter and, hell, he’d heard all that news already.

He wouldn’t have given a fuck about the razzing, either; it’s not like he wasn’t always being fucked with for shit he did, except it was Gianelli and Reed.

He’d disliked those two fuckers on the spot, way back when he first started. They were both big, gorilla looking men that wore suits every day, had a wall of ‘commendations’ for their ‘meritorious service, ‘ and were all chummy with the movers and shakers up in brass. They were also two of the worst murder police Marshall had ever seen.

He’d personally seen Gianelli take credit for some discovery a newbie suit made at a crime scene and met the kid’s puzzled, indignant stare with a calm, arrogant one of his own. _Yeah,_ it said. _Fuck with that._ Reed made a career out of flirting with the admin assistants so they’d do the pain-in-the-ass calling and research for his cases, and they both lifted the cases they thought would bring them the most PR and brass recognition, going blocks out of their way to answer a call then disappearing when it didn’t look like the case was easy or newsworthy enough. It wasn’t the kind of murder police Marshall was and it wasn’t the kind he respected.

And the two clowns were hanging all over his desk singing an off-tune version of “Mmm-Bop” while people snickered.

Poblanski was down at robbery scooping the last of their Friday doughnuts. If Marshall moved fast he could clock them both before anyone stopped him.

“Mathers, Mathers, man, tell us something, talk to us,” Reed put his beefy, All-American gorilla arm around Marshall’s shoulders and shoved his square head in Marshall’s face. Marshall could smell sour coffee on Reed’s breath. “Are you mmm-bopping him?” Gianelli guffawed loudly and they slapped hands.

“Only after I’m through with your sister.”

The smirk fell right off Reed’s face as a chorus of "ooooh"s cascaded around them, but Marshall ducked quickly out of Reed’s grasp when the goon went for him.

“She said she hadn’t it that good since the last time she saw you.”

“Come here, fucker.” Reed hissed, trying to grab him without looking like he was grabbing. Marshall moved casually behind his desk.

“Ain’t she a screamer?”

“You shut the fuck up.”

“Mathers!” Poblanski inserted himself between Reed and Gianelli’s murderous gorilla bodies and him. Poblanski had doughnut sugar all over his tie, “What the hell are you _doing_?”

“Taking to Reed about his sister. She likes me, his sister.”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Reed glowered and Marshall looked up at him innocently then flipped him off.

“That pretty little fag better deliver, Mathers.” Gianelli muttered low enough for only the four of them to hear, “Or the case is back on our turf.”

“Oh, did you want a date?” Marshall rounded his eyes in surprise, “’Cause I could put in a good word, yo. You think Lenore would mind?”

“All right, break it up.” Poblanski interrupted with a growl, baggy sleeves swaying as he waved the older detectives away “Everyone back off.”

“Keep a leash on your boy,” Reed muttered to Poblanski, “He ain’t learned he don’t shit in his house yet.”

“You let me worry about our business, Frances.” Poblanski returned and Reed got red in the face and walked off. He hated his Christian name.

Poblanski glared at him as Marshall started to gather his stuff from the desk.

“What? They fuckin’ started it.”

“What are you? Twelve?” The older detective demanded before sinking onto a chair and mopping his brow with the constant yellowed handkerchief. “We’re supposed to be working with them.”

“Nuh-uh. They’re supposed to be working with _us_ , and I don’t need their fucking help.”

“We need something. We ain’t turned up jack on the fertilizer canvas.”

“We ain’t done.” Marshall muttered. But their list was getting shorter.

It turned out most of the people who could afford to buy all the fancy rose fertilizer could be x-ed out right off: elderly couples, society matrons in garden clubs, young moms who liked creative landscaping. All of them had alibis that checked out so far. They’d also been tracking down any of Blake Rinaldi’s friends that had been there that night to see if anyone could remember anyone that might have been watching Blake at the bar, anyone that came on to him, anyone he talked up. No one had so much as seen him get approached.

According to Kwong, the killer was in his mid to late twenties, deeply religious and conflicted about his sexuality and suffering from delusions. Nut job actually thought Tay knew him and perceived everything Tay did as being in direct reaction to the killer’s life. Kwong thought the killings might actually be a form of atonement when the disassociation wore off and the killer realized he was committing sin. Yet even though he murdered them he laid them out in what he considered a respectful manner because in his fucked up mind he’d freed them for their acceptance into heaven.

It was the most bizarre shit Marshall had ever heard. He wasn’t telling any of that shit to Tay, neither. It’s not like Tay could do anything about the crazy fucker.

Besides, Tay had been looking worse the last few days; eating less, more quiet, the hollows under his eyes darker and darker. The webbing of veins around the sky blue eyes, the lines bracketing his mouth and around his eyes, and the smudges beneath them were so pronounced if he’d looked like this when Marshall walked into the interrogation room nothing could have convinced Marshall he wasn’t using, and heavily.

“Anyways, ‘Mando gave me a call yesterday, said he got another partial list from a different manufacturer. We can hit them after you get back.”

“Yeah, dope.” Marshall nodded, crumpling the article from his desk and throwing it in the trash.

He had to get to Tay’s for breakfast. Marshall didn’t call him ‘Hanson’ anymore, not even in his head.

The third day on this detail Hanson wouldn’t answer until Marshall started to call him ‘Tay.’

*~*~*~**~

On the fifth day Tay placed a plate of pancakes, eggs, and strawberries in front of him and took the McDonald’s bag out of his hands with a disgusted look on his face. He tossed in the trash in a perfect two-point arc.

“Hey, I paid for that!” Marshall protested.

“Which is unfortunate. Eat.”

“Where’s yours?” Marshall asked and Tay glanced at him before serving himself about half as much as he’d served Marshall. Tay took the opposite chair and raised his eyebrows in question.

Marshall took a bite of egg so light and fluffy it melted on his tongue and reached for the syrup.

Tay smiled and picked at his food

*~*~*~*~

On the seventh day Marshall got so caught up in the paperwork spread all over Tay’s kitchen table that he realized with a start that it had moved into early evening and he’d been sitting here for three hours, oblivious.

“Fuck.” He rubbed his eyes and stretched and Tay walked over from where he’d been sitting on the couch.

“You wanna order pizza?” Marshall blinked at the slim, blond figure leaning against the counter with his hands in his pockets. Tay’s shoulders were hunched up and the look on his face said he knew Marshall was gonna turn him down and he couldn’t believe he was asking anyway. A good two inches of skin showed where the hem of a too-small Izod rode up and Marshall’s eyes glanced at the flat stretch of creamy skin with the unmistakable trail of hair under the bellybutton that disappeared into the waistband.

It didn’t look like Tay wore underwear.

Tay’s hands suddenly came out of their pockets to tug at the bottom of his shirt and Marshall turned back to his paperwork, willing the blush that prickled at his skin like new sunburn to stay back.

“I mean, it’s already six-thirty and by the time you get home….”

“Yeah, a’aight.” He heard himself say and Tay looked as surprised as Marshall felt even though, yeah, he’d just agreed, that had been his voice, that had been his head nodding ‘yes.’

“Oh,” a smile broke out on Tay’s face, dimples flashing and something shifted inside Marshall he couldn’t even name. “Great! I’ll, um, what do you like on it?”

“Everything.” Marshall shrugged, “Not anchovies and that shit, but everything else. You calling Pizza Hut?”

“No, I order from this little place. Their dough is hand rolled wheat.”

“Wheat?” Maybe the whole thing was a bad idea.

“Stop looking like that. It’s good.”

“A’aight.” Marshall said but he couldn’t keep the doubt out of his voice and Tay rolled his eyes as he dialed a number on the cell.

So he wouldn’t try to hear what the hell he’d end up with tonight Marshall stood, the joints in his knees creaking, and walked over to the huge entertainment center with it’s state of the art sound system and rows of DVDs lined up behind glass.

They had a little of everything and a whole lot of what Marshall called ‘chick flicks’ where someone died or got married or dated that stupid punk Hugh Grant who didn’t know enough to buy his tail in private since he was a star. He saw all three Matrixes, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, extended editions, all of Star Wars, and the entire first three seasons of ‘Oz’ the prison drama on HBO.

The few DVDs he had were mostly Disney movies that Hailey could watch when she came over, a few taped basketball games that he never got around to watching and some VHS cassettes he’d found on sale at Wal Mart: Major League, Blackhawk Down, and Fast and the Furious because Marshall liked the cars.

“We could watch something.” Tay’s voice sounded behind him making Marshall jump from how near he sounded.

“Sorry,” Tay apologized and Marshall felt light pressure on his waist that almost felt like a hand then it disappeared. “It’ll be about thirty minutes.”

“Naw, I mean,” embarrassment came up on him from nowhere, but not nowhere, because he knew this scene, right? Yeah, sure he did. Takeout, DVD watching, the privacy of an empty apartment. It was called a ‘date’ and he hadn’t snapped to the familiarity because it had been way too long since he’d actually been on one. “It’s your place. We could watch TV.”

“I don’t watch that too much lately. I don’t like the reports about the murders.”

Marshall couldn’t blame him for that.

The pizza came forty minutes later while they watched “X-Men” and they ate it out of the open box laid out on the coffee table, Tay’s bottle of water and Marshall’s Mountain Dew on either side.

Tay had been right: the pizza was damn good.

Tay had started keeping Mountain Dew in the fridge and just shrugged when Marshall awkwardly tried to bring up paying for them. He couldn’t figure out how to press the issue without sounding like an ungrateful asshole, so he dropped it.

He stayed until the movie finished and made himself leave even if he didn’t want to.

They’d done that a few times. Marshall always left.

*~*~*~*~*~*

This was the twelfth day Marshall used his key to let him self in without knocking.

Did you know we’re boyfriends?” Tay asked as Marshall walked in the kitchen. Glancing at the amused smile that didn’t match the worried eyes he picked up the paper and scanned the article that he’d seen that morning.

“Yeah, I saw that. I didn’t even get a date or nothing.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re easy.”

“Fuck.” Marshall looked away laughing. Tay really smiled, the worry around his eyes disappearing and sipped coffee from a mug with Garfield on it that said ‘Step Away From the Caffeine’. It wasn’t even a joke; the kid drank it like water. Marshall had to constantly stop himself from pointing out that it didn’t help the insomnia. Tay was a grown man and Marshall wasn’t his moms; that wasn’t why he was here. A few DVDs and pizzas between them didn’t change that.

Except maybe he was gonna mention something anyway because the skin under the sky blue eyes looked tender and purplish red, the cheekbones seemed to be more stark. It made Tay look vulnerable and tired.

“You doin’ a’aight?” he asked, paging through the newspaper for no reason.

“Yeah.” Tay turned away and opened the refrigerator door, taking out a carton of eggs, some margarine, and a block of cheese.

“’Cause you look like shit.” Marshall finally said, eyes on the Sports page and heard Tay snort.

“Wow, thanks. You talk to chicks that way? No wonder you’re single.”

“You had any other dreams or something? That’s why you can’t sleep?” Marshall gave up pretending to read the paper and shoved it aside, leaning on his elbows on the counter.

“No, nothing yet, but…”

“But?” Marshall pushed, watching Tay crack three eggs into a mixing bowl one-handed, add skim milk, and whisk briskly. Even tired, his movements were graceful, economical. He had his hair pulled back from his face into a ponytail like it did when he was cooking, the bones of his face and the long neck bare, and he was in stocking feet. Low slung jeans bagged around his ankles and a faded Nirvana t-shirt clung so tight Marshall could see outline of his nipples.

He was looking at Tay’s _nipples_ for Christ’s fucking sake.

“But?” he repeated sharper than he meant and Tay met his eyes suddenly, the whisk stalling.

“Tomorrow will be two weeks.”

“I know.” Marshall said. The Rose Killer had been averaging a body every ten-to-fourteen days. They’d been close to the witching hour for a while now.

“It stops long enough so that I hope it won’t happen again, and then it does.” Tay had resumed cooking, grating orange slivers of cheese onto a cutting board, his expression severe. Marshall moved around the counter next to him close enough to see the blue vein in the milky curve of bicep jump as Tay grated. A strand of dark blond hair escaped the ponytail holder and floated down, the end curved against Tay’s jaw. Then he lifted his eyes and Marshall had never seen such exhaustion on a human face before.

“I’m catching this crazy fuck. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” Tay’s voice sounded tired and husky.

“I just did.”

“Okay.” But it was the same tone Marshall used to use the fourth or tenth or hundredth time his mom promised things would get better, next Christmas would be nicer, the next guy she got with would take care of them.

He reached out and tucked the loose strand of hair behind Tay’s ear, the shell silky and warm against his fingertips. Tay stopped grating again and looked up, expression unreadable. They stared at each other in the kitchen with the scents of fresh breakfast foods floating in the air.

“I’ll find him.”

Tay nodded then scraped the eggs into a saucepan, popped two slices of bread in the toaster while they bubbled, and sprinkled cheese in.

“Get the plates.”

Marshall gave up and opened the cabinet to remove two of the matching set with a colorful smiling sun in the middle. He couldn’t find two plates that matched at his house if it meant the firing squad.

They sat down. Marshall put away two platefuls and watched Tay move his food around and finish a slice of toast and three cups of coffee. He was gonna fade way to nothing and Granola Chick was gonna kick Marshall’s ass when she got back.

Afterwards, like they’d done for two weeks, Tay curled up on the couch sketch pad in hand and Marshall spread his stuff out on the cleared dining table with his cell. He got the short list of additional people that used the expensive fertilizer and the name ‘St. Lucia’s Catholic Church’ jumped out at him. Moving to Tay’s computer, which he’d been using since he started hanging here because it had a hell of a faster connection than the ones at the precinct, he went on MapQuest and plugged in the church’s address and the cross street where the last vic was found.

They were less than ten miles apart.

“Yo,” he said as soon as Poblanski answered the cell, “Did you see the church on that last list?”

“Saw it.” His partners labored breath answered in his ear, “Called to get the hours for the rectory and it should be open today till two. Wanna hit it now?”

“Yeah.” Marshall nodded, the buzzing at the back of his head getting louder and louder like it always did when something felt major, when he had a hunch.

“Ima go…” the words faded when he saw Tay dozed off on the couch again, sketch pad half off his lap and his head resting sideways on one of the cushions. The messy ponytail fluffed out a little and the lashes lay on the thin cheek, motionless. Sometimes it was like being around a narcoleptic.

Bill the cat sat curled on the sofa cushion closest to Tay's shoulder and had one scraggly paw resting on Tay's shirt, pear-green eyes shut to slits.

By now Marshall knew that if he tried to so much as move the pad Tay would wake up and insist he wasn’t sleepy. So even if Marshall thought sleeping that way was gonna get Tay a helluva crick in his neck he carefully turned off the soundless television and walked quietly out of the apartment, leaving him on the couch in the pretzel position, the cat's paw possessivley on his shoulder. At least it was sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~

St. Lucia’s Catholic Church  
2675 John R Rd.  
Rochester Hills, MI

Father Bartholomew had a head of vibrant white hair that floated around a face flushed and smiling. He laughed a lot and joked with them and he didn’t match the dark brown office with its statue of Jesus and tomes of bibles on the shelves. Marshall watched him make gesture as he talked, the brightest thing in this depressing fucking place.

“Roses, my yes, we’ve had our rose garden for years, as I understand.” The Irish accent made it sound like ‘rooses.’ “You saw them out front when you drove up, ay? Not bloomin’ right now to be sure but you should see them in season! A veritable sight they are! Our good father does advice us against pride but he wouldn’t begrudge me boastin’ over some posies I don’t think.” He laughed uproariously and Marshall couldn’t help smiling.

He bet sermons at this church weren’t boring.

“We’re actually looking for another kind of garden, Father.” Poblanski said, “More like a private greenhouse.”

“Greenhouse, eh see.” Father rubbed at his chin while Marshall shifted on the rack he was sitting on. He guessed it was easier to repent your sins if your ass felt like it was falling off. “I doon’t think so, me lads. The only rooses we have are out front, like eh said.” There was a pause and Marshall felt his stomach sink. Fuck he thought this had been their break; he’d felt it. “Is this about those murders in the newspaper, then?” _Mar_ ders.

He and Poblanski exchanged glances. “We really aren’t at liberty to say Father, pardon us.” Poblanski answered and the priest waved the apology away in flapping gestures like bees were attacking him.

“’A course, ‘a course. Impertinent of me, aye, but one can’t help but wonder.”

“Thank you for understanding.” Poblanski nodded and they got up to go, Marshall’s tail bone sore and his butt numb. Poblanski handed the jolly priest one of their cards to, “Call them if you think of anything.”

Father himself walked them back to the front of the church and Marshall was glad. The tight faced nun that had led them here looked at them like she knew they had jacked off to porn and weren’t repenting, no sir.

Marshall couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church. Hailey’s christening? No, not that long. Some funeral, maybe. Someone killed in the line of duty. He didn’t like them; never had. Work was the only religion he understood, evidence the only bible he knew by heart. His Aunt Betty had enrolled him and Nathan in bible study when they were kids but it never took. It was hard when all the peace and love from the scriptures didn’t translate to fuckall at home.

“You okay?” Poblanski asked and Marshall nodded, glad to be out of the dark, echoing building. The chilly, forbidding air that smelled like melted wax and furniture polish. Funny how, even if he hadn’t been in a lot of churches that’s the scent his brain came up with when he thought of ‘church.’

“Place gives me the creeps.”

“I was an altar boy.” Poblanski puffed, mopping his face, even if all they were doing was walking back to the car a few yards away. Marshall reminded himself to make Poblanski go get a checkup.

Because if anything happened to him Marshall had no fucking clue who he could be paired with that he could even stand.

“For real?” Marshall said when the phrase sat in his head a few minutes. “You wore the dress and shit?”

“It ain’t a dress. You’re fuckin’ goin’ to hell. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s called a….”

“Officers! Officers!” A voice sounded and they turned from where they stood on either side of the car to see the prune face nun come running down the steps of the church, habit billowing behind her and his first thought was, ‘Yo, the flying nun,’ before he realized they were being stopped and his heart sped up.

“Yes, sister?” Poblanski asked, voice respectful, and fuck if Marshall knew how he did that. Marshall wanted to whack the nun on the back as she stood trying to catch her breath to make her talk faster.

“Roses. A rose garden.” She finally gasped.

“You got a rose garden?” Marshall asked, pulse hiking up and running, but she shook her head.

“The seminary. The seminary ... has a greenhouse.” She dabbed at her upper lip with a dark sleeve even if it was pretty cold out here.

“Where’s that at?” Marshall demanded and Poblanski laid a hand on his shoulder. Marshall realized he was talking a little loud and eased up.

“Is this close by? Walking distance, driving distance?” Poblanski asked

“About three miles down.” She nodded, hands on her hips. Her cheeks were pink. “At the college. We share a groundskeeper. One of our parishioners who was also an alumni bequeathed funds for a greenhouse almost twenty years ago. Some of our clergy volunteer to work in it also, and we use it for community outreach. Perhaps you’ve heard of our ‘Grow a Rainbow of Peace’ project every summer? The children adopt a rose bush and plant their own.”

“No vacation bible school?” Marshall asked and Poblanski gave him a dirty look. What?

But the nun finally kind of smiled at him as if she just realized he maybe wasn’t jacking off to Hustler magazine twenty four seven. She was kind of young, actually, and had one of those plain faces that could cross over into pretty with some makeup. Except that was never gonna happen.

“It's part of our vacation bible school. In the winter, though, they grow roses.”

“Who’s they?” Poblanski asked, “We’re gonna need names, addresses, phone numbers.”

“Our administration office will have that.”

“Wait,” Marshall spoke up because he could feel himself getting excited and if it was gonna be a dead end he wanted to squash it now. “Who pays for the upkeep? Fertilizer, shi-stuff like that?”

“Well,” the nun knit her brows, thinking, “I believe our institution handles the financial aspect. The bequeathment goes through the church, but I could be wrong. Our admin assistant could tell you.”

“Dope. Then I wanna see the garden. ” Marshall said, heart getting that slow pound he heard in his bones when he was close and one more question, visit, witness would break it free.

“Of course. I’ll call to let them know you’re coming.” They took off to the offices while the nun started giving them directions to the seminary on the Rochester College campus.

*~*~*~

Rochester College  
800 West Avon Road  
Rochester, Hills, MI

“Fuck me.” Marshall said softly. Next to him Poblanski made an agreeable sound. They stood just inside the open door of the ‘greenhouse’ which looked like a huge glass warehouse if you asked him, and facing them, all around them, were row upon row of roses in full bloom, thick and in every color he’d ever seen. Red, yellow, pink, some even looked purple or silver, the overwhelming scent of them thick and strong like a morgue gave him an instant headache but he didn’t care. His heart had never gotten past the slow going beat because this was it. This was the arrow and Marshall intended to follow it right to the very end.

“Right there.” He pointed to a cluster of flowers that reminded him of candy canes: creamy white at the base that blended into bright red at the curl of the petal. They were exactly the kind that were in the envelopes the crazy fuck had left at Tay’s.

“Those are called Double Delights,” the nerdy, short kid with the glasses and the dirty gardening clothes said, “They’re one of the most favorite hybrids made from mating a Grenada and a Garden Party in equal parts...”

“Yeah?” Marshall said as they walked through the rows of flowers. “Who takes care of these?”

“Oh, well,” the kid pushed up his glasses as Poblanski sneezed into his handerkerchief. “We share a groundskeeper with St. Lucia, of course, and we have a tight schedule. Some clergy from the church, some students working on horticulture, some volunteers. All of them have to have the right background, though.” Marshall had the list from the church but he needed the one from here to cross-reference.

“Got anyone blond, early to mid-twenties?”

“Just one?”

“Marsh.” Poblanski rasped. “I gotta get some air.”

“Yeah, I’m right behind you.” Marshall said as his partner fled for the door.

“We should leave, too.” The nerd, whose name was Tucker or Hunter or one a those preppy names started to walk away.

“I need a flower.” Marshall pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He kept a couple there just in case.

“Just one?” Did the kid say anything else?

“I need it for evidence.”

“Is this for The Rose Killer?” The kid’s eye got bright behind the nerdy glasses and Marshall sighed.

“I can’t comment on that. You giving me a goddamn rose or not?”

“Well, these are very delicate. You can’t just pull one off...”

“Watch me.”

“Noooo!” he practically wrung his hands as Marshall put his hand in his pocket and reached to pluck a rose. “Please! We use these for competition! You can’t.”

“My murder investigation trumps your flower contest, yo.”

“But...wait..I need to call my supervisor!”

“Don’t make me get a fuckin’ search warrant for the fuckin’ flower, dog.” He glared at the nerd who backed up and dithered around before finally, pulling some shears from his pocket and cutting one off, handed it to Marshall. He looked like he was gonna cry.

“Thank you.” Marshall dropped the flower in the plastic bag and sealed it, writing the date and time on the label with his ballpoint pen.

“That just cost us six months of work. I could get in trouble.”

“Anyone gives you flack give ‘em my card. I’ll talk to ‘em.” Marshall gave him one and stared at him as the kid took it and took off at a dead run.

“We have to go!”

“What the fuck for--?”

Just as the nerd reached the door the sprinklers came on.

“Mother FUCK!” Marshall shouted sprinting the last five feet, which did him no good at all.

“I tried to tell you.” The kid looked like he was trying not to smile. Marshall gave him the death glare and the smile went away. Little wiseass. He left him there as he walked into the cold to get in the car.

“Shit.” His shoes were squeaking. He was dripping and _now_ he was freezing and probably catching pneumonia.

“Mather...what the hell happened to you?” Poblanski stared at him as Marshall poked around the back of the unmarked for a towel or a blanket and shivered.

“Fuckin’ sprinklers came on.”

“That’s priceless.” Poblanski started to chuckle then dissolved into laughter, ho-ho-hoing like fuckin’ Santa Claus.

“Sh-shut up, man.” Marshall chattered as he sat in the driver’s seat. “Drop me at Tay’s. It’s closer.”

“You got clothes there now?” Poblanski gave him a sidelong look and Marshall narrowed his gaze out the window.

“Naw, it’s just closer. He’s got a washer and dryer. You got something to say?”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“I ain’t defensive!” Marshall snapped then sunk into the seat, grousing out the window.

“I’m just sayin’…”

“Yeah, what _are_ you saying, Les. Enlighten me.”

“You always been good at compartmentalizing your life, Marsh; maybe too good.”

“Tell Kim that. She said I never left the job at work.”

“You left the job at work; you just left some of yourself there, too,” Poblanski shrugged, easing the Buick through traffic, “It happens.”

“Got a point then make it.”

“You aren’t compartmentalizing here. You were until Hanson got involved and now I see you getting close. I see you getting invested, and you can’t do that. You know better.”

“He’s fuckin’ killing kids, Les. Nineteen, twenty years old. Almost Nate’s age. How do I compartmentalize that?”

“That ain’t what I mean.” Poblanski said mildy and Marshall cut a sharp look at him.

The silence in the car would have been awkward if they hadn’t known each other well.

“You can’t save him, Marsh.”

/Yes I can./ Marshall looked out the window and didn’t answer.

“Whatever’s wrong happened a long time ago and you can’t fix that. Especially not if he thinks he’s psychic...”

“I know what I’m doing.” Marshall muttered even if, when he was around Tay, he was never sure.

“Yeah, okay. Watch yourself.”

“I am.”

Nothing more was said.

Poblanski dropped him off at the apartments with half the list for the rose workers and Marshall told him he’d get Tay to drive him to the precinct for his ride after Marshall dried off. He took the stairs two at a time but he was blue by the time he got to the door. It took him two tries to fit the key in the lock but he did it quietly in case Tay had dozed off again. It took him two tries to get the key out, too, especially since he was being careful.

He was glad, though, because the living room was warm but empty with only Bill the cat perched on the back of the sofa blinking at Marshall with bored, sleepy eyes. Tay probably was taking a nap, which was good if the way he looked this morning….

A sound came from the bedroom and Marshall froze, stopped his hands from squeezing the chill moisture from his water-logged hoodie. For long seconds he wasn’t sure he’d heard anything then again, a low, breathy gasp coming from behind the half open door of the bedroom and Marshall cursed to himself.

Twelve days of acting like a goddamn hermit and he picked _today_ to hook up? When Marshall stood in the living room dripping water on the rug and freezing and…

/he ain’t with nobody/

The thought came to him all calm and shit because, of course not. Tay barely left this place. He had dinner with his brother sometimes and talked to Granola Chick on the phone and that was it. Marshall hadn’t seen sign one of the people Tay was supposed to be ‘dating’, like Kwong said, not so much as a phone call or message.

Moving silently, not thinking of what he would see, refusing to think in fact, Marshall walked quietly, feet squishing muffled by the Persian rug, and leaned over to peek in Tay’s bedroom, making sure to hide behind the half-closed door.

Tay lay flat on the bed, hair loose and free all over the pillow, legs bent and one hand moving slowly and deliberately over the bulge between his legs. Marshall’s throat went dry, his cock got hard in seconds, he went from cold to blazing hot, and all he did, all he seemed to be able to do, was watch Tay’s slim figure arch and move on the bed, and even jacking off he was graceful; slow and sensual. Not like Marshall’s frantic pulling while he held a magazine in one hand, or the quick, efficient jerks of his fist when he woke up or in the shower.

Tay’s hand ran over his torso, hooking the Nirvana t-shirt and lifting it like a curtain, and Marshall’s vision swam at the curves and valleys of pale creamy skin, delicate lines of ribcage and dusting of ginger colored hair where the t-shirt got caught half-mast, just below Tay’s nipples. The hand slipped under though, did something to one and Tay threw back his head with a small moan, the hand between his legs moving faster

Marshall was totally, aching hard and he couldn’t have moved for the world.

Both of Tay’s hand suddenly moved over the spanse of his chest, down the flat stomach and pulled at the button of his Levis, yanked down the zipper and the sound seemed to echo. Lifting his hips Tay pushed down the jeans /no underwear/ and the long, graceful fingers pulled out the flushed flesh of his cock /he’s long/.

Something about the sight of those two hands between Tay’s legs, stroking steadily, tip wet, one reaching under between his thighs, finally snapped Marshall out of his trance. So hard he could barely walk he crept back towards the door and pressed himself against the wall, one hand gripping the insistent weight of his erection. He couldn’t get the sight out from behind his eyes, though: the high color of Tay’s face, the way his toes curled, gripping comforter between them, the way his hands caressed and smoothed. Tay made love to himself he didn’t just jack off.

The sounds from the bedroom got louder, more intense, heavy breathing, little moans and gasps and that was almost worse than seeing because the mind movie in his brain went into overtime. Did Tay raise his legs? Go behind his balls? Put his fingers in his mouth? The last visual spiked lust right through him. Marshall gritted his teeth as his hands feverishly undid his pants, found his cock in the sodden fabric of his boxers and started to pull. The desperate sounds from the bedroom and quick work of his hand and rough fabric against his cock and, “Yes,” whimpered from the bedroom, “ _Oh,God_ ,” he came fast and hard, shooting all over his hand, muffling his shouts through clenched teeth. Heard sliding moans then sharp intake of breath, another—and the apartment went silent.

His legs barely held him, his mind kept spinning, but he heard the sounds of movement and quickly reached out to open and slam the door as loud as he could.

“You home?” he called, wiping his hand on his pants actually glad for the soaked condition of his clothes.

“Just a minute.” Tay called in a perfectly normal voice and Marshall ran both hands over his face, tried to control their shaking. His body was still sending shocks of afterglow all over and Marshall took deep breaths, closed his eyes, tried to get himself together. He really needed to sit down.

“Why are you wet? It’s freezing outside!” Tay’s voice reached him. He hadn’t realized he’d been standing there the heels of his hand s over his eyes and removed them, the brightness of the room jarring.

Tay had changed into soft, worn sweatpants and a ratty sweater with holes at the hem. Marshall blinked at Tay’s feet, unable to stare head on at the delicate pink that clung to Tay’s cheeks, the sleepy eyes and throaty voice that sounded like porn. Tay’s feet were bare.

Wet. Porn. Cheeks.

He had to get out of here.

“Sprinkler. I got some evidence. Roses.” The chill had started to come back and that was good, it cleared his mind, got him focused.

Tay’s expression stilled for just a second then he turned away. “Good. Take a hot shower before you get sick and I’ll dry your clothes.”

He had nothing to wear while his clothes dried but Marshall didn’t feel like arguing.

“There’s a robe on the back of the door.” Tay called as Marshall went in the bathroom and there was, a green velvet number that reached his ankles. He felt kind of ridiculous as he cracked open the door to hand Tay a pile of soggy clothes.

“You want me to wash them or just dry?” Tay asked, taking the mound with both hands.

“Just dry ‘em. I’m kinda in a hurry.”

“Right.” Tay nodded then paused as Marshall closed the door.

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Freezing my ass off.”

“Right. Hear you.” Nodded briskly and took off for the small laundry room off to the side.

*~*~*~*

He turned the water on as hot as he could stand it and jerked off one more time, screaming into his forearm. Afterwards he stood letting the water cascade over him, head back, eyes closed.

He didn’t draw blood but the indentations would have made ‘Mando happy.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

*~*~*~*

He walked out of the bathroom to find a t-shirt and a pair of black sweats laid over the couch. Stealing himself for the pants being too small and too long he was surprised when they fell just right. The t-shirt was too tight, though and he pulled at it trying to get more give. The front said, “Drummers Bang All Night.”

Jesus.

“Whose are these, yo.” Marshall asked padding into the kitchen where Tay stood watching something in the microwave turn happily. “’Cause I know they ain’t yours.” For a second the thought occurred to Marshal that these might belong to a boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. He didn’t like the idea and didn’t like that he didn’t like it.

“My brother Zac’s. He always forgets something here and he’s built kind of like you.”

“Oh.”

Tay glanced over his shoulder. “Whose did you think they were?”

“No one’s just. Wondering. You know.” And that didn’t sound really lame or anything.

The microwave pinged and Tay winced a little as he took out a steaming cup of water with a string trailing out of it. Tay took a spoon, stirred a few times then fished the bag out of the cup, tying it to the spoon by wrapping the string around the whole thing a few times, amber liquid dripping back into the cup. He placed the cup in front of Marshall and Marshall peered in its depths.

“It’s tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Just drink it.”

“I’m good.”

“Drink the fucking tea, Marshall. You can’t do anything if you get sick.”

Grumbling he lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. It wasn’t bad. It tasted like raspberries and honey. The warmth spread through him and he drank some more.

“The dryer cycle will be about twenty more minutes.” Tay said and they sat at the table, Marshall with his tea and list of names and Tay with his chin propped on one hand.

“What’s that.” Tay tilted his head to look at the sheet of Xeroxed paper. Marshall turned it so Tay could see the list.

“One of these people is the killer.”

Tay actually moved back a little as if the paper could bite him, expression in that careful blankness that happened when Tay heard something he wasn’t sure he could handle. Marshall recognized it now.

“How do you know?”

“I got a feeling. Either one of these or one the ones on Poblanski’s list. It adds up.” Tay nodded, eyes still on the plain sheet of paper with people’s addresses and phone numbers on it. Tay had gathered his hair back again and the play of his throat showed as he swallowed. A strand of hair lost it’s moorings and floated down the side of Tay’s face, end curled. It was always doing that. Marshall thought Tay needed to use hair products or tighter hair ties.

“Sometimes I wish I was still using.” The words were casual, relaxed. A cold finger traveled down Marshall’s spine and he folded the list up and pushed it away.

“You can’t do that.”

“I know. I’m not. Just. Sometimes.” Tay sighed, moving his hand back to rub his neck, fingers long and pale.

“Don’t even joke about that, yo.”

“Don’t you ever just want to forget?”

“Yeah. All the time.” Marshall admitted, and left it at that. He had a whole file of things he’d erase from his memories if he could: the look on a rape victim’s face, the smell of death in a warehouse in the middle of summer, the sound of a mother’s anguish when she’s told her son just got killed, dead babies, twelve year old prostitutes with old eyes, young, long haired men with roses at their feet.

“What do you do?” Tay’s fine, long fingers played with each other on the table and Marshall watched them.

“Work.” He drank too, too much sometimes, but he didn’t say that while they were talking about resisting addiction.

“Isn’t work what you want to forget?”

“Not just work.” The look on Hailey’s face when he told her about the divorce. The look on Kim’s face when she told him about the divorce.

One of the long fingered hands suddenly reached over and squeezed his wrist, the touch warm and intimate.

“I’m sorry. My brother Zac says I can be the really self-involved sometimes.”

“’S okay.” Marshall shifted, relieved when Tay removed his hand. “’Sides, there’s good stuff from work, too. Helping people and shit.”

Tay nodded, face thoughtful and Marshall got caught in the blue of his eyes before he could look away. The smudges had gone away a little /since he jacked off? Before?/ The silk lashes blinked slowly and Marshall leaned forward on his elbows, not dropping the gaze.

The hair got heavy between them.

Without a word Marshall reached over to tuck the runaway lock of hair behind Tay’s ear again. His fingers traced the jaw line all the way around, skimmed under Tay’s chin, up over the indentation there with his thumb. The silky lashes fluttered shut and Tay moved into his touch just a little, sighing quietly. Tay’s eyes opened and Marshall got trapped in the sky blue intensity and didn't want to get away.

An obnoxious sound startled them apart and he realized it was the dryer signal. His clothes were ready.

“I’ll get them.” Tay got up fast and Marshall sat back stared at the hand he’d used to touch all that beauty and sadness and wondered what the fuck he’d been thinking of. Or with.

Since he was about half hard he guessed he knew that answer.

He had to get out of here, fast.

Then he remembered he needed a ride to the precinct since Poblanski dropped him off. _Fuck_.

When he could get up without being up he walked to the small room off to the side where the apartment sized washer/dryer combo was. Tay was pulling out his clothes and folding them in a neat pile on the ironing board nearby. His movements were measured and careful and he didn’t look up when Marshall came in.

“Taylor…”

“Could we not?” Tay interrupted, eyes anxious when they lifted, “Discuss it? At all?”

“I was gonna ask if you could take me to the station,” Marshall said slowly. “Poblanski dropped me off and I ain't got my ride.”

“Oh.” Tay’s face got pink and Marshall felt a smile quirk the edges of his lips. He was pretty fuckin’ endearing when he got embarrassed. “Yeah, of course. Um. Here.” Tay picked up Marshall’s dry clothes, warm from the dryer and smelling of fabric softener and handed them to him. Their arms brushed in the exchange sparks tingled across Marshall’s skin.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Tay crossed his arms, eyes downcast. “I’ll just change and… whenever you’re ready.”

“A’aight.”

*~*~*~*~

The clothes really were dryer warm and felt good. Marshall also realized, once he had them on and floating in powder fresh scent, that they smelled like Tay. The scent seeped in Marshall’s pores and popped up ‘Tay’ on his conscience immediately, along with some lingering soap clean and the faint smell of Cloves.

Just great.

Tay walked out of the room tying another one of those long, knit scarves around his neck and Marshall tried not to look at him. He’d changed to his leather jacket, sprayed on faded jeans and square toed brown boots. He looked like a college student and not a day over twenty and the long, clean lines of his legs went on for days. His hair flowed loose and free, and the Polaroids kept coming, this time of how the caramel and flaxen strands looks spread out on the pillow, clinging to his neck from the exertion…

“Let’s go.” Tay said and Christ knew what look Marshall had on his face because Tay suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes either.  
*~*~*~

“I’m the blue car over there.” Tay indicated with is chin when they got down to the covered parking. Marshall followed the gesture and felt his eyes go a little round in surprise. He didn’t know what he expected but the sleek, foreign Audi A6 sedan that couldn’t look more out of place under the simple covered parking wasn’t it.

“This your ride?” he asked then flinched when he played that back. Smooth Mathers.

“No,” Tay said casually, “I just walk up to strange cars and try to jack them. I’m a criminal too, didn’t you know?”

“Sorry,” he could feel heat on his face and cursed himself, his hormones that had decided to channel his seventeen-year-old horniness, and this whole weird ass day. “Not what I expected is all.”

“Really.” Tay said, voice neutral. The locks shifted quietly when Tay pressed the small, black alarm in his hand.

Marshall sank onto plush leather seats and took in the loaded interior, more bells and whistles than the shuttle dashboard and everything gleaming like Tay had bought the car yesterday. Black leather covered the gear shift and the steering wheel, actual wood inlays and aluminum framed the CD disc changer and the instrument panel, and he bet the sun roof had slide and tilt functions along with the dark privacy tint.

He didn’t know what crazy ass shit he was starting to feel for Tay but he definitely wanted to fuck this _car_.

Marshall’s car smelled like McDonalds, had fading upholstery, one window that went down and refused to come back up, and leftover crayon marks on the dash from when Hailey was a baby. The crayon marks were the only things he didn’t mind.

The engine purred to life when Tay turned the key and the thing backed up like it was on rails, smooth as butter. Tay drove with single-minded concentration, long, elegant fingers draped over the shift knob and sky blue eyes on the road ahead. Marshall could barely even hear the engine from in here.

“So what did you expect?” Tay asked, not looking over. “That I’d drive, I mean.”

“I dunno.” Marshall gave in and pressed a button and the seat shifted backwards under him, easing the weight on his back. “Beamer, Jag, Porsche maybe.”

Tay smiled as if he wasn’t surprised. “Ike is the muscle car freak. He has all those and a Lamborghini he chased all over the globe for a year. My younger brother likes comfort. He has an Explorer named Lulabelle. He still has the Ford Caravan with a bed in the back the he bought when we first hit and he could legally drive.”

“This is one fly ride, yo.” Marshall said. “You got a V8 under the hood and a 4.2 liter engine. This thing can probably hit 130 in six seconds flat.”

“Wouldn’t that get me arrested?” Tay asked, still smiling, and okay, Marshall was acting like a kid, but he’d never sat in anything close to this fine. A lot of cops went for muscle cars too, Mustangs and convertibles. They could have them. This was what he was talking about.

“They’d have to catch you first. You got 335 horsepower and 310 pounds of torque in there.”

Tay glanced over, face quizzical. “Okay?”

“Shit.” Marshall laughed and Tay did, too, kind of embarrassed.

“I’m ignorant, okay? Unless it’s a recording studio I’m not that mechanically inclined. I just researched which cars kept their value the best and this is the one I liked. I’d have let you drive if I’d have known.”

“I ain’t on your insurance.” Marshall said automatically and Tay quirked an eyebrow at him.

“What are you going to do? Give me a ticket?” And, well, he had a point.

The awkwardness from the apartment had almost gone away but as soon as Tay pulled into the precinct parking lot it came back, settling between them, fading the easy give and take they’d had talking about Tay’s car.

“Thanks for the ride.” Marshall said looking at the clean lines of Tay’s profile as Tay tucked the fall of blond hair behind his ear.

“Sure. You can drive next time. I don’t care.”

“Dope.”

Marshall could see the stares they were getting idling in the parking lot even with the dark tint on all the windows. The expensive, purring car stood out like royalty among all the police cruisers and public vehicles on the lot. It put the Police Commissioner's boxy, gas-guzzling Caddy to shame.

“Later.”

“Yeah.” Tay kept his eyes down and Marshall got out of the fucking car before he gave in to the itch on his palms and lifted Tay’s chin so he could look in his eyes.

He got as far as walking around the car before turning and jogging back, tapping on the window just as Tay shifted gears preparing to go.

The window slid down and Tay squinted at him as the cold air seeped into the climate-controlled interior.

“I’m gonna be pretty late tonight. I wanna check all the names from the church and the greenhouse."

“I could save you some dinner.”

“You don’t gotta do that.”

“I know.” Tay smiled, dimples flashing, and a slow, helpless roll went through Marshall’s insides.

Jesus fuck he was in trouble.

“That’d be good. Later.”

“Bye.” Tay closed the window and Marshall made himself walk in the building instead of watching Tay drive off.

It didn’t matter. Tay’s smile, his eyes, the sounds from the bedroom had taken up permanent residence in his head, anyway. It was ridiculous.

They didn’t go away until he and Poblanski spread out the lists in front of them and started feeding more names into CODIS, looking for a red flag, any red flag, and starting the warrants for everyone's DNA. He wasn’t gonna go in there without one and waste time; he was loading for bear.

Because the fucker was on this list, hiding, waiting. Marshall could feel him. Crazy fuck was on a deadline, his jones kicking in, the bloodlust starting. Marshall was gonna do everything he could to beat him to the finish line.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tay finally sees. Rating: PG-13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are procedural things that are six ways from wrong. I'm sorry. I will probably look at some websites later, but for now, this is it.   
> Large parts of this are inspired by every police drama I love and the excellent X-Files fic 'Wind River' by Cathleen Faye.  
> Also? So, SO, very unbeta-ed.  
> Disclaimer: This is completely and categorically a work of fiction. No infringement of any sort is intended.  
> Dedication: For everyone that likes to read them as much as I like to write them.

MARSHALL

It took him and Poblanski six hours with coffee breaks to find the flag but they found it. Marshall peered at the printout while sipping acrid coffee when he saw the telltale asterisks next to a name and put down the cup leaning further into the light. His eyes were going after so long. 

No less than five males fit the blond hair-blue eyes description and they were getting DNA from all of them including the other male employees between the ages of nineteen and thirty. Neither he nor Poblanski wanted to leave any stone unturned, any loophole open. But of the five only one zinged on CODIS. Only one glowed day-glo bright on the horizon.

Jonathan DeVries stared out at him from a mug shot taken in 2002, twenty-four, hair blond, eyes blue, approximately five ten, one hundred forty pounds. Had a restraining order taken out against him twice and the person requesting them was male. How about that? Had a list of minors a mile long: some shoplifting and bad checks, one for being in possession of a controlled substance but that had gotten thrown out because the residue wasn’t enough to convict, and one for indecent exposure in a public place. Fuckwad had been busted paying for a hand job in a park, one Marshall recognized as a major gay cruising area. He’d also done some probation for an unauthorized weapons charge a few years back. Homeboy wasn’t exactly ignorant, though. Said here he actually had an associate degree in computer science from one of the junior colleges in Lansing but he hadn’t had a lot of luck keeping computer jobs, which sent up another red flag. Why clean toilets and mop up people’s dirt when you could sit in a cushy office at a computer? He maybe got in trouble getting his rocks off on porn using company time or….

Marshall smiled coldly. 

Or the trolling was better in the halls of academia than at an office with other computer geeks. He’d gotten work with maintenance at the college and got by the background check by not mentioning that he’d seen the inside of a jail cell a few times. Mr. DeVries had stayed just a step below a felony and played his cards tight to the vest so he could keep his janitor job while casing the campus for pretty longhaired boys with a certain vibe. Eight hours a day, five days a week, and all the pretty dick he could find. 

The greenhouse was even in his assigned cleaning area.

‘Mando would run all the DNA because it was procedure but Marshall knew who he was gonna request be put up in front.

“Got a hit?” Poblanski asked as Marshall held up the paper and stared hard at the name while he printed out a copy of the perp’s record. 

“Oh, yeah.” Marshall said softly. Hello, asshole, he thought. Welcome to my fucking world. 

*~*~*~*

Marshall let himself in the apartment quietly at eleven-thirty, his eyes burning with fatigue and crashing off an adrenaline and caffeine high. 

He and Poblanski had wasted no time showing up at DeVries’ apartment but he wasn’t there. They got the super to let them in by flashing their badge and claiming probable cause but the place didn’t exactly give them any evidence that a junior lawyer couldn’t argue away as circumstantial: aside from the usual gay skin mags and some dildos under the sink the perp did have a few Hanson CDs but all of their DVDS. No shrine to Tay or anything weird like that, but the most expensive thing in the dinky apartment was the state of the art computer. It was taken for evidence to see what their tech guys could find out. These sneaky little computer geeks were always smarter than Marshall gave them credit for. 

Part of Marshall wanted to stake out all night but Dellamore called in to congratulate them on having a viable suspect and to demand that they both call it a night. She’d placed an unmarked at DeVries’ apartment and notified the university that they were to contact them as soon as he showed up for work. There was an APB out on him, too, and they’d tossed his work locker at the college looking for something with DNA, always making sure the warrants were in place, the back up irrefutable. Marshall was not screwing this up on a technicality. 

He’d gone by his apartment to feed Beretta, who was starting to look at him like he was a stranger; he spent so much time at Tay’s. He gave him couple of Cheerios and part of a cheese slice for being a good hamster and not bitching and the little animal stuffed them in his mouth and burrowed in his soup can with his ass sticking out. 

Marshall didn’t really blame him. 

Now here he was again almost midnight and finally willing to admit that he might be kind of tired. 

His stomach growled as he walked in the living room. 

And hungry. He hadn’t had anything but crappy coffee and a Milky Way from the vending machine since the tea this afternoon. 

Tay lay fast asleep on the couch in the soft sweats and holey sweater from earlier. His hair framed his face in the low lamplight and he almost looked peaceful. Almost. Even in sleep, though, there was a set to his features, a tension that didn’t leave. Tay’s hands were balled into fists instead of open and relaxed, one on his stomach and one beside him. He lay flat, his back almost rigid for someone that was supposed to be sleeping. The most relaxed thing about him was Bill the Cat perched on his chest and purring rustily, bushy black tail swishing back and forth in lazy sweeps. 

Absently Marshall chanced rubbing the cat’s head and the animal flattened his ears, giving him a flat green stare. Apparently it took more than a rub on the head to win Bill’s approval. Smart cat. 

Toeing off his trainers and padding into the kitchen he opened the fridge and found a plate covered in Saran wrap with a sticky note on top. 

‘I made chicken and pasta. Nuke for three to five minutes. See you tomorrow. T’ 

Marshall removed the Saran wrap and sniffed experimentally at the food. Even cold it smelled pretty good and his stomach was about to demand he get over it and pop it in the microwave right now. Marshall had just about gotten to where he trusted Tay’s food decisions, though. No matter how weird it sounded it always ended up tasting okay and hell of a lot better than the Burger King or Pizza Hut Marshall usually had if it was up to him.

He was about to throw the note away when he saw more writing on the back. 

‘Just eat it. T’ A smile stretched the corner of his lips and he grinned to himself as he quietly popped the plate in the microwave and slipped the note into his pocket. 

Punk. 

The pinging of the machine sounded enormously loud and Marshall glanced over at the couch in apprehension. Tay just gave a mutter and shifted a little, the bushy black cat riding the small movement like a gentle wave. 

The food was good, chicken with some bowtie pasta and green beans that Marshall knew didn’t come from a can. Some kind of sauce kept everything moist and even if it was nothing more exotic than cream of mushroom soup it tasted fantastic. There was a certain taste to food that someone had created and worked over as opposed to the mass generated taste of a burger through the drive-through. Marshall had forgotten what it was until now. Tay had even included a roll for him. 

He wondered, as he rinsed his plate off to put in the dishwasher, why he couldn’t find girls that could cook like this. Fuck, he couldn’t even find girls that _looked_ like this. He never hooked up with chicks that looked that beautiful. Of course it might help if he quit hanging at cop bars and nailing detective groupies. 

He realized he’d used ‘hooked up’ and Tay in the same thought. And he’d called him beautiful again. Damn. 

He had to get some sleep. He should get home.

Instead he sank back onto the recliner and stared at Tay some more, wondering if he should wake him up to go over to the bed. 

Nah. If he woke up and didn’t go back down Marshall would feel like ass. Tay wasn’t getting enough sleep as it was. Better to leave him like that with the cat on his chest than disturb him. 

He was gonna get up and go home in just a minute here. As soon as he rested his eyes for a little while. Any minute. 

He saw himself actually get up and go down the stairs to his car but it was in slo-mo so part of him, at least, knew it was a dream. Like when you dream you’ve woken up and you oversleep. He didn’t care enough to wake up for real and relaxed down into the soft leather, breathing deeply. 

*~*~*~*~*

Something jumped on his chest and suffocated him with its hair and he jerked out of sleep with a gasp, hand on his holster before his eyes even focused. 

It took him five full seconds to realize the fucking cat had pounced on his chest and he cursed, heart trip hammering. Bill crouched low, tail flicking over Marshall’s nose, and why did cats always shove their ass in your face? Bill was up so high they could have been engaged, for Christ’s sake. 

“Get the fuck off! Come on!” he whispered, trying to unhook the sharp claws that snagged on his hoodie but Bill dug in deeper and a creepy, slow yowl came from the cat’s throat that stilled Marshall instantly. For a second he thought the goddamn cat was in heat and oh fuck, _gross_ , but then he realized Bill was facing Tay on the couch and Bill’s body was stiff with tension, hair standing all up it’s back like the cat had stuck it’s paw in a light socket. Its tail looked like one of those long feather dusters, dull, matty hair sticking straight out. 

“Kitty, kitty?” Marshall whispered. 

Tay suddenly gave a miserable, hitching moaning sound that made Marshall’s blood freeze and the cat jumped off his chest with another yowl, speeding to the bedroom in a streak of black fur. 

Marshall stared at Tay’s form on the couch, his own breathing slow and labored and his eyes computing what they saw, what this might actually be. 

Tay had turned on his side facing the cushions of the couch back and his hands lay flat against it, moving along the fabric as if he was blind. Shoulders hunched up, toes curled tightly, Tay’s body quivered and trembled as he let out those horrible sounds that raised goose flesh all over Marshall’s arms. He realized the horrible sounds had words. 

“Don’t don’t hurt him please don’t oh god run don’t go with him no, no,” Tay pleaded into the sofa, voice frantic and begging and Marshall flew off the recliner to Tay’s side then had no idea what to do. 

It was happening, this had to be it. He just knew from the fear on Tay’s face with its closed eyes and sheen of sweat and his own deep, unsettling instinct. 

“Tay?” he whispered, wondering if he should wake him up, when he should wake him up, and how. Leaning over he peered at Tay’s face to see the rapid movement of Tay’s eyes beneath the delicate blue-veined lids, back and forth frenetically and it was the creepiest thing Marshall had ever seen up close. 

“Don’t do this why are you doing this leave him alone don’t go, don’t!” Tay sobbed desperately, hollow and dry, hands clawing at the material of the couch, and Marshall just could not listen to that sound for one more minute. 

“Tay? Wake up, come one,” he lay a hand gently on Tay’s shoulder and Tay exploded into everything: sound, movement, voice, arms shoving at him with the strength of the insanely frightened, yelling, body quivering like a tuning fork, like live wires as Marshall tried to restrain him. 

“Hey, hey, a’aight, a’aight,” he tried to soothe but one hand glanced off his nose hard enough to make his vision blur and he shook hard, once, hands sinking into the flesh of Tay’s arms. Tay’s head lolled back like a broken doll’s but when it righted itself Tay's eyes were open, white all around the blue, now muddy and slate gray, and Marshall fought the skittering coldness that crept up his spine at the blank lost despair in them. 

“Tay. Talk to me, come on,” he whispered, rubbing his hands up and down the tremor in Tay’s arms until the silky lashes blinked once, twice and the freaky wide-eyed stare focused on Marshall’s face. 

“Marshall?” Tay whispered as if he was afraid Marshall would deny it was him. Then Tay’s features crumpled in on themselves not with crying but frantic, incoherent fear. 

“Oh, god, you have to stop him, you have to, he’s doing it again, he’ll kill him you have to go..!” the words ran into each other so Marshall could barely understand them, but his heart skipped at them anyway because this was it, why he’d been here. It was happening right in front of him. 

“Where is he? Can you see where…?”

“You have to go right now! He’ll hurt him again, you have to stop…!” Tay’s stare had started to get wild again, his body quaking more, hands clutching handfuls of Marshall’s hoodie. Marshall pulled him close, tightening his arms around the shaking shoulders while he whispered in Tay’s ear low and as calm as he could manage, like he would talk to a scared animal. 

“Sssh, sshh, breathe for me, you gotta breathe. Breathe.” He felt Tay take a shaky breathe, then another, and the rigidity in his arms lessened a little. 

“You gotta tell me what you see. I need to know where he is so I can stop him, a’aight? Talk to me. Close your eyes and tell me what you see.” He whispered against the heated shell of Tay’s ear and it felt intimate, it felt private and wrong to be this close to Tay where he could smell the scent of his hair, feel the warmth of the shaking body in his arms while he asked him to channel a fucking serial killer. 

“Okay, okay,” Tay chanted quietly. Marshall looked at his face to see the silky dark lashes shut in concentration, the tremors steady and endless. 

“He’s in a bar…club…lots of people, men…,” Tay whispered. 

“Can you see the name?” Marshall asked softly, holding Tay back as Tay clung to him, fistfuls of hoodie in both hands and not letting him to move away for a second. 

“Um…its…people won’t move…Club Meteor. Red neon letters with a yellow flame…it’s a meteor behind them, I think….”

“Good, real good. Do you see a street sign? Anything with an address?” Marshall pressed, hand reaching for his radio. He could have them track it down but if he could give an address it would save time. His heart pounded loud and strong in his ears while Tay bowed his head a little, brows scrunching. 

“I can almost….Woodward Avenue and…I can’t….Woodward….I can’t see! He won’t show me!” Tay pushed his fists against his eyes as if he could physically pull out the information, voice haggard and angry and Marshall shushed him again, rubbing the back damp with sweat, keeping his lips close to Tay’s ear. 

“Hey, we’ll find it, breathe….”

“East Hazlehurst! It’s Woodward and East Hazlehurst, I can see the sign!” Tay suddenly burst out, eyes snapping open as he began to speak in rapid fragments, eyes blinking, “He’s got blond, hair short in the back, almost shaved and long on top, he has…glasses? Glasses and he’s wearing….a blue plaid shirt and…jeans? Dark pants he….pretends to be shy….he won’t drink…..” Marshall committed the description to memory as Tay spoke, the rash of gooseflesh all over now as he realized he would be sending out information on nothing but Tay’s word and he knew, without a one doubt, it was correct. 

“There’s an alley and he…he’s….,” Tay face drained pale, almost ashen.

“Did it already happen? Is what you’re seeing before or after?” Marshall asked quietly and Tay looked at him, eyes a thousand years old. 

“Before. He’s talking to him right now, making him comfortable but I can feel…him want to…hurt. He has a knife in his back pocket.”

Marshall pried Tay’s fingers from his hoodie and Tay wrapped his arms around his legs, cocooning in as if he could protect himself from the images inside his head. “I’m gonna go stop him, a’aight? Keep the phone close,” Marshall reached for the tiny cell phone on the coffee table and pressed it into Tay’s sweaty hand. Tay nodded but his stare still looked unfocused, inward. “If you see anything else, anything that changes, you call.” Marshall’s number had been input to memory as a precaution the first day of his detail. 

“Don’t open the door to nobody.” Marshall said for no reason other than it seemed like a good idea. Even with the unmarked cars taking turns on surveillance seeing Tay see the killer made the killer more real than any CODIS hit or finger print match. 

Tay shook his head, eyes wide and blank and Marshall ran for the door stopping when Tay called out.

“Marshall?” he turned, body bouncing with the need to go, pursue, catch. Something shiny and clinking hurtled towards him and he caught on instinct. 

Tay’s keys rested on his palm. 

“It’s faster.” Tay said from his hunched seat on the couch and Marshall nodded then flew out the door, taking the stairs two at a time, adrenaline buzzing beneath is skin. It took him a second to get the flasher lights out of his Toyota but it would save him time on the way. He rarely used them since the Camry, which had over 100,000 miles on it complained if he pushed seventy on the freeway, but he’d never been so glad to have them as now. 

Once in the car Marshall flicked on the radio talking rapidly.” Adam Twelve responding to a Code five in Ferndale, in the vicinity of Woodward and East Hazlehurst, Club Meteor, over.”

“Adam Twelve, copy.”

“Suspect wearing blue plaid shirt and dark pants or jeans, blond hair, blue eyes and glasses. Suspect considered armed and dangerous, over.” 

“Adam Twelve, do you need backup, copy?”

“Affirmative. No lights , repeat, approach with no lights, over.”

“Copy Adam Twelve, unit responding, over.” Marshall refrained from saying what suspect they were pursuing. The last thing he needed was a posse of cops flooding the club, all trampling the crime scene and getting in each others way, not to mention the jurisdictional crap that came up at the stupidest times. 

The Audi roared to life like it was on an Indy 500 lane, flowing smooth and lethal through first, second, third and beyond. 

Marshall had realized the club was thirty fuckin’ minutes away in _Ferndale_ , a burg known for low crime, little pink houses and white families. With this baby, though, he’d be there in no time. 

Cars eased out of his way, stop signs and red lights ignored he flashed across town, mind focused, staccato trip hammer of his heart slowing, slowing, because he knew he was going to stop this crazy fuck and god help whoever got in his way. 

*~*~*~*~

Club Meteor  
22061 Woodward Ave.  
Ferndale, MI  
12:030 a.m. 

He switched off the lights a block from the club and screeched into a parking space in front of the shiny glass fronted building with people hanging around outside and a huge goon of a guy watching the door. As he approached the entrance making sure his badge hung on the chain around his neck he hung a right to go around the building and ignored the apprehensive stare from the bouncer at the front. 

If the suspect was still inside the victim had a few more moments of borrowed time but if they had already gotten busy in an alley then they had no time at all. 

The club stood in a strip center, the only business still open at midnight and Marshall searched, his Glock drawn, for movement behind dumpsters and in shallow doorways to find nothing. When he came out of the second alley between a consignment shop and a Subways he saw two suits and jogged over to them. One of them, an older cop, had already clocked Marshall and his eyes got a little big when he put the scene together. 

“Rose Killer?” The cop asked in a funny hushed voice and Marshall nodded. That’s when the younger cop’s face, a very young face with a sea of freckles around a large nose, got excited. 

“No shit?” 

Marshall wondered if he had ever been that young. 

“I need someone to go in the club; see if he’s still in there.” All of Marshall’s instincts told him no. It had taken him a good twenty minutes from Tay’s place to here but he had to make sure. 

“I’ll back you up.” The young cop said quickly and his partner gave him an exasperated look. Yeah, youngblood here must be right off the academy to look like he was under the tree on Christmas morning at the prospect of apprehending a murderer. 

“Taking the inside and calling for more backup.” 

Marshall nodded as the older cop waded into the late night crowd of club goers, mostly young guys in couples or groups. 

He chose another alley, came up with nothing, and felt frustration spark under his skin. The weird thing was he believed Tay. For some reason he believed without question and knew the crazy fuck was around here somewhere while time ran through an hourglass one precious grain at a time. 

The phone in his pocket rang and he clicked on immediately, ignoring the young cops surprised look. 

“Tay?”

“He’s left the club he’s in an alley right now, he’s….the knife is in his hand Marshall please….” Tay’s voice pleaded, a sob just behind the words and such sharp, cutting _hate_ for the perp came up on him he felt his stare go red. 

For the lives he’d taken and for the way he’d killed them and for the faces of the parents and boyfriends he’d had to tell but beyond that he wanted to kill the fucker for Tay. He wanted to shove his gun down the fucker’s throat for how Tay sounded on the other end, stuttering and afraid and how the _hell_ did someone ever get right after crawling around in that much insanity?? Who the hell was he to rip Tay apart with his sick fantasies just because he got a hard on for a fourteen year old pop singer eleven years ago?

“What else can you see?”

The young cop looked scandalized as if Marshall had chosen to talk to his girlfriend in the middle of a search. “Dude, we’re in pursuit…”

“Shut up,” Marshall snapped heading for another alley, farther away from the club. 

“There’s a laughing dog!”

“What?” 

“A laughing….dog, a St. Bernard or a…what are they called…Rottweiler, those Omen dogs, I can see it…..” Tay sounded more and more agitated, little chuffs of sound punctuating his words so Marshall thought he might be pacing. 

“A real dog?” There were no dogs at all around here that he could see. For the first time doubt tried to overtake his actions because this sounded like the craziest thing and there were no DOGS….

“I…no, I don’t…that’s what I _see_ ….” 

Suddenly, much farther down the strip mall, Marshall spotted two black dog shapes on either side of a glass door with bars in the front. Evie’s Unique Gifts and More the sign in the window said and as Marshall got closer he saw they were dog statues made out of black metal, German Shepard statues at the entrance and both wearing the proverbial ‘doggy smile.’ 

“I got ‘em.” He whispered in the phone and clicked off, pocketing his phone as he carefully approached the narrow alley between the gift shop and an empty property advertising for a vendor. He could feel the young cop behind him and prayed the trigger happy kid wouldn’t send everything to hell. 

Pressing his back against the wall he turned to look between the two buildings, already hearing sounds from inside, moans and gasps, and apparently they hadn’t gotten to the gory part of the evening yet. The young kid pressed on the other side of the wall, almost thrumming with adrenaline, eyes huge, and Marshall tapped his gun to chest to indicate he’d move first. The kid nodded enthusiastically and Marshall stuck his head out enough to see down the dark corridor. 

A green dumpster obscured almost everything but as he crept closer the lights from the parking lot reflected weak illumination down the path and shone on the top of someone’s blond head, moving in rhythm against another person whose hair absorbed the light. The light glinted off something sharp and metal in the blonde’s upraised hand and Marshall saw him throw his head back in ecstasy or prayer. 

“Freeze! Police!” Marshall aimed the Glock just as the arm with the metal object descended and they both turned towards him skewing the angle of the cut. 

Blood arced in a fine spray catching the light like drizzle and the blond ran without even doing up his pants. 

“Call for backup!” Marshall called over the high, mewling scream of the victim, legs already pumping, running down the alley in pursuit of the racing blond figure. /Okay, if the victim can scream like that without wheezing he’s okay/ his mind supplied like background music because he didn’t take his eyes of the killer drilling holes in the plaid shirt watching the blond hair bob as the fucker ran.

He pulled off a shot, missed because he couldn’t get steady aim and kept in pursuit, following the perp across a dark side street to where he squeezed through the opening in a poorly padlocked gate into a cluster of warehouses with only one dim street lamp to see by. 

Lungs burning, breath harsh in his ears Marshall kept pushing, almost there, pushing to get close enough to tackle, but the warehouses were a pitch black maze. The sat clustered together in an industrial park with no security guard, no canine watch, nothing. Just ‘cause the area was a little better than uptown the owners skimped on the safeguards. Punks. 

The killer looked like a blur in the dark and Marshall kept losing him in the shadows, going by ear, listening for footsteps, for the distant wail of sirens. The sounds of the bar and traffic faded to nothing as the harsh in-out of his own breath became the whole world: this breathing and the slap of the killer’s running as he tried to lose Marshall in this fuckin’ industrial funhouse. 

They seemed to jog around the maze for hours but Marshall knew it was probably no more than a few minutes. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and controlled the tremble in his arms from holding the Glock ready so long. /One break, one _fucking_ break, god, that’s all I ask/ his mind chanted like a litany as he picked up movement to the left from where he thought the perp had gone and veered after him. The perp tripped on something in the dark, sprawled on the ground arms flailing and Marshall sped up, so close he could see the sweat glistening on his neck in the murky moonlight. Close enough to fire Marshall fought the urge to aim and shoot because he could aim for a leg or an arm all he wanted; if he missed and killed they’d need more than two cops as eyewitnesses to justify homicide. He’d seen too many good cops hung out to dry for that.

The killer had sprung up like a fuckin’ jack in the box just as police sirens pierced the air in the distance and he ran faster but Marshall could see him limping as he ran, lurching desperately. Marshall could feel it ending, getting closer because the fucker was fading, hunched over with fatigue, slowing and the sight sang adrenaline through Marshall’s veins so he could run for _miles_. He could fuckin’ fly until he caught up with him. 

The blonde figure gave a running limp around a corner. Muscles burning, gun ready, mind full of tackle and apprehension, Marshall sped after him. 

A huge blurred object propelled into his face in an explosion of pain. 

He crashed back, vertigo and agony making him nauseas and the ground came up hard against his back as entire solar systems of stars danced before his eyes. Milky Ways, constellations, the fuckin’ Big Dipper as another wave of sickening pain spiked through him as he clutched his face. Almost as sickening as knowing the killer was getting away while he squirmed around on the floor like an upside down beetle. 

Pounding footsteps surrounded him and he tried to sit up before someone called a bus for no damn reason. 

His eye felt like it was going to explode. 

“Officer down, repeat, officer down.”

“I ain’t,” Marshall coughed through the bends as he heaved himself up, “Down. I’m a’aight. Cancel the bus.”

“You should get that looked….”

“Cancel the fucking bus and go after the perp!”

“We got three units after him.”

Another wave of dizziness hit him and he leaned over to put his head between his knees. “Fuck.”

“Mathers?” he recognized Poblanski’s voice and tried to squint up at him as the familiar scent of Old Spice cologne, Irish Spring soap and spaghetti sauce got closer. 

“I’m a’aight.”

“Jesus Christ you got a shiner the size of Texas.”

“I’m a’aight…”

“Coming through, give him some air.” The brisk no-nonsense voice that could only belong to a paramedic shouldered everyone out of the way and Marshall sighed as a pony-tailed girl carrying a med tackle knelt next to him. 

“I’m fine.” 

“So you keep saying,” the girl flicked on a penlight and tilted his head back, the rubber smell of her surgical gloves not helping his nausea. “You just got beaned with a metal drum, okay? Follow the light, please.”

Marshall followed the light up and down, left to right, even if it gave him a mother of a headache. He breathed in and out and allowed his blood pressure to be taken and told people what day and month it was. When they asked him who was president and he answered, “That fucking asshole,” the paramedic shut the tackle with a snap. 

 

“He’s lucid. He should go in just in case. He could have a concussion.”

“I ain’t spending the rest of the night at the ER, yo.”

“Your call.” The girl shrugged, her face suggesting exactly what she thought of his call but he didn’t give a shit. 

“How’s the vic?” he asked Poblanski as his partner helped him back to the curb where his car and a crowd of people had gathered outside the club. “How’d the pursuit go?”

“Vic’s gonna make it. Gonna have a hell of a scar but at least he still got his head attached.” Poblanski paused and Marshall knew. “They lost him in traffic. Too many civilians around to get off a shot.”

Shit.

But at least no one died. No young man with dark hair and roses at his feet. No traumatized disbelieving faces of family and boyfriends when they were told their loved one had been sliced open after a fuck in an alley by someone they’d just met. Sometimes he thought the shattering of a parent’s image hurt more than the actual crime. 

He realized phone hadn’t rung again and that kinda worried him. 

“I had him, Les. I fuckin’ had him. Shoulda called for backup sooner.”

“You followed procedure. Don’t beat yourself up.” Poblanski panted as Marshall reached Tay’s car and leaned against the door with his eyes closed. His head was starting to throb like fuck. 

“I’m driving you to the Medical Center.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ going Les!”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, a’aight? You could fall asleep and go into a coma. Happened to my Uncle Paulie. Hit his head on the sink when he was fixing it and his wife woke up next to a DB the next morning. Hell of a thing.” 

“You ain’t scaring me.” Marshall muttered. He had a mountain of paperwork to do and they had to check in on DeVries apartment again and….

“We go to the hospital we maybe get to talk to the vic.”

Marshall peered at Les’ jowly face, a hilarious fake innocence expression on it. His partner knew him too well. 

“I’m driving my damn self, a’aight? You happy?” Marshall groused, still holding his head where the skin throbbed and pulsed and felt hot with pain. 

“Eh.” Poblanski shrugged then stared as Marshall fumbled in his pockets for the keys to the Audi.

“You hit the lottery or something?”

“It’s Hanson’s. Got me here faster.” Marshall said shortly, in no mood to give a shit about the look Poblanski gave him. 

Poblanski tried to talk him out of driving one more time but Marshall wasn’t having it, so they took off for the Med Center in two cars, dodging the arriving media that had just gotten wind of the situation. He shut the door on the first reporter that started shouting a question and gunned the engine so they’d get out of the way. They scattered like pigeons in a park and he followed Poblanski down the street trying to ignore the pain in his temple.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath.

3:25 a.m.

Intersection of Cloverdale and Scott

 

Marshall had run three red lights and too many yellows to count when his cell rang. He clicked it on and almost said Tay’s name when Dellamore’s voice hit his ear.

“Did you drive Hanson’s car to the crime scene?”

“Yeah.” He said shortly, “Faster.”

“The media know Hanson’s car. It’s risky.”

“What, he’s the only person with a fuckin’ Audi A6?” /Maintain. Main-fucking-tain/ but he couldn’t. He couldn’t maintain because the picture of Tay pushed against that wall with red blood in his fine blond hair wouldn’t quit playing over and over in his head like a loop and Marshall knew it made no sense. He knew the perp had crawled off to lick his wounds and kill another day because that’s what happened when serial killers had a close call but it made no fuckin’ difference. He’d let the crazy fucker get away and the crazy fucker knew where Tay _lived_ and Tay wasn’t answering his cell …

“You’re not on his insurance and the city would have been liable for any damages to that vehicle, Mathers.”

“Yeah, and I’d still be driving to the goddamn crime scene if I took my ride.”

He heard a sigh and came real close to hanging up on her and blaming poor reception. He was in no mood for a proper procedures lecture. Not now.

“Point taken. Just no joy riding in Hanson’s car, alright?”

He mumbled something that sounded like agreement as he sped through more yellow lights and narrowly missed a Jeep. Thank god the streets had almost no one on them or he’d have crashed half a dozen times.

She asked him about the victim and he spoke on autopilot ,telling her what they knew, which was more than they known and not much at the same time: mid twenties college student got approached by a guy at the bar said his name was Lazarus of all the fucking things. ‘Lazarus’ had just been in seminary school and ‘Lazarus’ didn’t’ drink and ‘Lazarus’ seemed so shy and harmless. The victim made the first move. The victim chose not to use a condom because how more pure than the driven goddamn snow could you get than someone in seminary school? Somehow the killer made everything the victim’s idea. That’s as far as they got, though, before the kid’s eyes started to glaze over and the nurse shooed them out of the room.

Dellamore processed this for a second, verified that they’d left a uniform with the victim just in case and let Marshall go, thank fucking god. Tay’s apartment came up in the dark and Marshall’s heart started to trip hammer with worry. He pushed on the gas, the expensive car easing up to eighty without a single protest.

He angled into a space with a screech and flew up the steps the mantra in his head keeping cadence with each pound of his feet /He’s okay. He’s okay. That don’t mean nothing. He’s okay/

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until the goddamn key kept missing the lock and he had to actually take a deep breath and concentrate before it worked.

“Tay?” he called as he flung the door open. His eyes scanned the room. The emptiness stared back at him and his stomach did a long, slow, sick fall to his feet before the sounds came from the bathroom. He knew them, heard them all the time growing up when his mom had one too many, when his mom’s asshole boyfriends woke up after visiting the bar: someone throwing up. Right now it sounded like the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Tay?” he ran to the bathroom and busted in, the sour smell of vomit in the humid air. Tay looked up at him through damp strands of hair from where he leaned over the open commode, on his knees, the sound of his panting loud in the small space. One hand flushed again, knuckles white, but the commode only gave a weak gurgle like it did when you flushed four or five time in a row. Tay’s other hand clutched the rim, long fingers curved into claws and for some reason Marshall’s stare got pulled to the bare stretch of Tay’s lower back visible under the hem of a thermal shirt and above the waistband of some plaid pajama pants, good four or five inches of pale skin and delicate backbone.

“Get out.” Tay whispered hoarsely.

He started forward without even thinking.

“GET OUT!” The vicious yell and Tay’s crazy broken eyes froze him cold and he took two steps backward and slammed the door just as another retch started.

Marshall let his head fall forward and lay a hand on the door, eyes falling shut from fatigue or pain. Pain for Tay, for the fucked up situation, for how Tay wouldn’t let him help right now.

He used to hold his mom’s hair as she threw up Mad Dog 20/20 or Shlitz. He nursed Nate through two rounds of the stomach flu and Hailey through one and that time she hid her Halloween candy and ate the whole pile as he and Kim slept. They cleaned up puke from her room for days. Puke didn’t bother him. Neither did blood. He’d seen too much of both to care.

Sighing, he walked away and went to shut the front door and lock it, one ear on the sounds form the bathroom: more flushing, silence for awhile. Then the sound of the faucet running for a long time. Marshall ran both hands over his face and wondered how long he should wait before knocking again.

When he looked up he saw Bill the cat perched on the back of the sofa like a Sphinx, flat green eyes taking him in and not being too damn impressed.

“’Sup.” He said. Bill blinked slowly and yawned, pink cavern of mouth with pin sharp teeth .

“You ain’t lying.” Marshall muttered, then blinked himself.

He was having a conversation with a fucking cat.

Jesus.

Fatigue crept into his muscles like a thief and Marshall yawned big, covering his mouth and rubbing his eyes. The knot on his temple throbbed, even with the pain meds, and his body felt strained and used up. Teach him to go running after a perp like he had some sense.

The bathroom door opened then, slowly. Tay walked out slow, too, face hiding behind the curtain of damp dark blond hair and both arms hugging his middle. The pajama pants hung off sharp hip bones, so low Marshall could see the ginger colored trail of hair clear against Tay’s flat pale cream stomach, two lines defining the abs. Tay sniffled quietly and Marshall took a step but stopped immediately when Tay shrank away from him with a small distressed sound that broke his heart.

“I ain’t hurting you.” Marshall whispered and Tay tucked a sweep of hair behind his ear before hugging himself again, like he had a stomachache or he felt cold.

“I know,” his voice still sounded hoarse. Marshall wondered how long Tay had been puking up his shoes before Marshall busted in. “I just get… weird…after. I can’t touch….” He shook hid head and didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

“You get sick like this before?” Marshall asked from his spot five feet away and Tay brought up his shoulders up in what was maybe supposed to be a shrug but didn’t make it.

“Not…this bad. Dry heaves. I never got…I never tried to get that close before.”

An ugly, bitter feeling started in his stomach as he watched the hollows under Tay’s eyes and the hunched curve of his back. Because Marshall owned what he was responsible for and he felt pretty fucking responsible for Tay’s beaten, screwed up body holding itself up against the wall next to the goddamn bathroom.

He reached out on instinct and Tay flinched and Marshall closed his hand into a fist as he moved it away.

“I’m sorry….” Tay whispered, so miserable Marshall’s eyes burned and Christ would this day ever fucking end.

“It’s a’aight. Don’t worry about it.”

“You got hurt.” Tay glanced at his temple before his gaze slid back down.

“Ain’t no thing. Punk hit me with a metal drum.” Marshall touched the bandage carefully. It pulsed with dull pain beneath his fingertips.

“Is…did…...” Tay swallowed, the lashes blinking rapidly as he stared at the floor.

“Victim’s alive,” Marshall said quickly. Tay looked up the pleading hope in his eyes so naked Marshall had hard time meeting them. “Gonna have an eight inch scar but he’s breathing.” The bruised blue got shiny in seconds and Marshall had to clench is fists to keep from tucking Tay’s hair back behind his ear.  
“You saved him, yo.” He said instead, keeping his voice soft because it looked like any quick movement or loud sound was gonna break Tay in a million pieces.

Tay shook his head. “I almost killed him.”

“What? Naw…..” Marshall protested and Tay covered his face then ran both hands back over his hair, sleeking it away from the pale forehead and sunken cheeks, stark in the bright light.

Marshall realized everything was bright light, the whole place lit up like a landing runway.

“He wouldn’t need saving if it weren’t for me.” The words sounded torn and ragged and Marshall gripped the couch back to keep from walking closer, to keep from shaking the words out of him.

“You fuckin’ saved him, Tay. You told me where to go. <i>Taylor.</i>” Tay looked up instantly and for a second Marshall almost dropped that stare, that hopeless, broken glass stare. “That kid woulda died without you, you got that?” Tay shook his head a little, like arguing. One tear overflowed then escaped Tay’s lashes to trickle down the exhausted angles of his face and he seemed to sag against the wall, like just standing took too much out of him. As if sensing his thoughts Tay suddenly slid down to the floor covering his face with his hands and Marshall took a step, came up short, then knelt down; watched as Tay wiped at the tear.

“I’m so tired.” Tay whispered, eyes closing, the lids pale as rice paper.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Marshall suggested, trying to keep his voice low and soft. Tay glanced at the bedroom as if he didn’t trust it, then shook his head again, eyes on the floor.

“Come on. I’m fuckin’ beat so I know you gotta be.” He hadn’t meant to play the sympathy card; he was too wasted to think like that, but Tay looked over at him, the ghost of concern knitting his brows.

They looked at each other across the floor a little while when Tay finally rubbed his chin on his shoulder, eyes averted. It reminded Marshall of that bible story where that lady turned to salt for looking over her shoulder. He wondered what Tay thought he’d turn into if he held Marshall’s eyes for longer than a minute.

“Are…,” Tay cleared his throat, still not looking at him. “Are you staying?” Tay’s looked up again and that look in them was killing him, it was killing him.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say. “I’m staying.”

Tay took a shaky breath then nodded.

They got up rubbing the muscles of their thighs and moving careful, like they’d been in a fight. Marshall guessed they had.

Bill padded at Tay’s ankles, tail twitching.

He stayed close as Tay walked because Tay still didn’t look too steady on his feet and the flannel pajama pants hung low showing about an inch of creamy skin. The gentle curve of hip looked pale and vulnerable and, out of nowhere, Marshall wanted to put his hand right there, at the dip of spine above the waistband to feel the warmth. He didn’t know how he knew it would be warm.

Tay walked in his room and Marshall stalled at the open door like a vampire that hadn’t been invited in. He watched Tay go over to the tall chest of drawers arms crossing over each other and Marshall blinked when they gripped the bottom of the thermal shirt and drew it up, blond hair spilling everywhere, slope of back and shoulder blades like sculptures as Tay pulled it off and tossed it in a wicker hamper in the corner. Rounded biceps flexed as Tay opened a drawer to take out a tank top and Marshall knew he should feel embarrassed and inappropriate as hell, eyeing Tay now, perving on him when Tay felt like crap, but he couldn’t stop looking. Clean lines, long, firm muscles, skin that glowed pale in the overhead light, sparse little hairs on his chest and that line from navel to waistband and Marshall’s eyes took in everything. Just stood there and watched and Tay let him. He didn’t even acknowledge Marshall until he’d tugged the tank top over his chest, down to his waist, then looked up and Marshall tore his eyes from Tay’s chest, face heating up; no trouble being embarrassed now.

For a second Tay just stood there, meeting his eyes. Marshall opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out because the air felt too heavy all of a sudden, to thick to breath. Tay’s arms, that had started the hugging thing again, slowly relaxed and drifted to Tay’s side and he lowered his head a little, looking at Marshall through his lashes and Marshall was a second from getting hard and Jesus Christ he’d had enough of this day, thank you.

“Ima take a shower.” He said hoarsely, turning before Tay noticed anything, and Tay’s voice stopped him.

“Leave the table light on. Don’t close the door.”

“A’aight.” He risked a look and found Tay crawling into the weird low bed under the cream colored comforter. In time to see Tay shift and pull the covers up to his chin and he recognized that, didn’t he? Yeah, he knew that trick from when he was a kid: if all your body is covered the monsters won’t get you. A pang of guilt slapped him sharp, like when you get a paper cut, because he didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking before. Probably hallucinating on fatigue and pain meds.

He flicked off the light and stopped at Tay’s whisper.

“Marshall?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Thanks for staying.”

Marshall nodded looking at the beautiful tired face above the blanket. The dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes and the strain around the mouth. “Get some sleep.”

It’s like he commanded it because Tay’s lashes fluttered and closed and he turned on his side hugging a pillow.

Marshall walked around turning lights off, closing doors, putting off the fatigue that had started to make his vision blurry and his hands shake. If he hadn’t felt skanky he’d just lie down on the couch and pass out but he did feel skanky. Dried sweat, dirt from the ground where he fell and hospital smells all clung to him and no fucking way was he sleeping in that. He felt disgusting.

Even so he leaned back and closed his eyes under the hot spray of the shower and almost fell asleep standing up. He washed his hair and cleaned up as fast as he could, ignoring the realization that he smelled like Tay again, and pulled on the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d had on earlier from where they rested, folded neatly on the dryer in the laundry room. Damn. This morning felt like it had happened a hundred years ago.

He had no fresh boxers or socks so he went commando but it didn’t matter as soon as he lay down. He remembered thinking he should at least look around for a blanket then nothing else as exhaustion hit him on the head with a soft hammer and he knew no more.

*~*~*~*~*

For the second time that night Marshall jumped out of sleep scrabbling for his holster while something clawed at his chest and brushed at his face, heavy and suffocating. He breathed hard, shaking, staring at dime bright eyes in the dark, feeling razor sharp nails through the t-shirt—and then Bill meowed.

“Motherfuck.” Marshall collapsed back on the couch as the cat kneaded his chest, stinging pinpricks through the thin fabric. “Gonna kill you.” I found the cat that way, Chief, he thought, sleep still trying to get him back and almost winning. So sorry. But Bill dug in, back claws, too, and Marshall hissed as he tried to lift the bony animal, sleep hustling farther away.

“Get the fuck off!” Marshall whispered tugging at the skinny paws as the cat made low meowing noises and hung on.

A muffled sob hushed itself into the night and Marshall stilled, Bill’s dull furry front legs still in both hands. He listened some more and heard it again: choked gasping, crying, and low mumbling coming from Tay’s room. Marshall looked at the cat still sitting on his chest, reflecting eyes floating in the dark triangle of his head.

“That Tay?”

Bill gave a plaintive ‘meow’ that sounded for all the world like, “Well, DUH, you thick bitch,” then hopped off Marshall’s chest with a last dig of his nails. Marshall watched him pad into the bedroom.

Rubbing his face Marshall heaved up and had to steady himself on the couch for a second. Every muscle in his body protested and his eyelids felt like sandpaper but he headed towards the warm light Tay’s bedroom just the same, unease growing as he got closer.

/No. It’s all wrong. It can’t be the crazy fucker again…./

It wasn’t. Tay thrashed restlessly on the bed, covers knotted around his waist, one pajama covered leg flung out. Eyes squeezed tight he cried softly in his sleep, fistfuls of comforter in both hands, gasps of words and tears escaping in short, stilted breaths. No REM in the warm light of the bedside lamp, no staccato quivering like live wires on the ground; just your average nightmare. Marshall’s exhausted mind thought of how fucked up this was that he could be happy it was an <i>average</i> nightmare.

Tay sobbed out a woman’s name followed by how he was sorry, sorry, and that was about as much of that as Marshall could take.

“Tay. Hey, hey, come on,” He sank down on the enormous bed and almost fell over when his ass fell several inches lower than he thought. The thing was lower to the ground than a regular bed. He shook gently at Tay’s shoulder. “Wake up a’aight? Tay,” Tay pushed at his hands frowning, little whimpers and distressed sounds slipping out, like a scared puppy and Marshall gripped the satin warm firmness of Tay shoulders and shook hard, once. “Tay.”

Blue eyes stuttered open, confused slits that blinked at Marshall, tear tracks still streaked down Tay’s face. He still had a hold of Tay’s shoulders but Tay didn’t freak out; just looked like he didn’t know where he was as he struggled to sit up, and then, it’s like he remembered. Marshall saw it happen, saw the sheen of perspiration on Tay’s brow, the stillness, and the horrible blank look in his eyes.

“Just a nightmare, its a’aight,” Marshall tried but he had a feeling Tay couldn’t hear him because he knew that look. He’d seen it too many times.

Something in Tay had checked the fuck out. No one home, snow on the TV screen, just gone because whatever he’d been dreaming of had finally overloaded him and Tay had HAD ENOUGH FOREVER.

Marshall had forgotten there was more than one way to lose a person.

“You a’aight?” he asked, faltering under the weight of Tay’s empty eyes which didn’t so much as blink and, Jesus Christ, this was wrong, it was so fucking <i>wrong.</I> Tay should have family here to help him; his brothers, Granola Chick, his parents. Someone besides one tired cop who hadn’t comforted anyone but his daughter for the last eight years. Someone besides him to get Tay back from where he’d gone to keep from going insane.

They looked at each other in the soft light of the small bed lamp until Marshall couldn’t meet the vacant stare anymore and dropped his eyes. His saw creamy skin and delicate slant of clavicles and rounded biceps, a bluish vein on the curve. Flat span of skin under the rucked up tank top, a hands width of smooth hip bones with a ginger colored trail of hair under his navel and the ridiculous blue plaid pajama pants that slid almost down to his dick and none of it affected him because Tay didn’t even look like he was in there. He’d seen a lot of shock victims and none of them had looked this gone.

Looking away he saw a half-full glass of water on the bed table.  
  
“Want some water?” He always gave Hailie water after a nightmare. He’d kept a large bottle next to the bed for when she visited those awful months right after Kim moved out. At least once a visit would see him rocking her safely as she clung to him crying, tearing out his heart with her sobs.

/”You died daddy you DIED!” “I ain’t dying, baby. I’m here. It’s a’aight.”/

“Here, drink.” Marshall brought the glass to Tay’s lips since Tay’s made no move to take it from him, his arms lying slack next to his body. Finally, as if Marshall’s gesture registered, he brought up a sluggish hand to guide the glass to his lips and startled Marshall by covering his hand with long, slim fingers. Marshall felt the heated pressure slide along his skin. Tay’s eyes never left him the whole time, that steady, removed stare, and it was distracting as fuck.

Tay’s teeth clinked against the glass and Marshall lifted it away, scared Tay might chip it and hurt himself. A dribble of water trickled down Tay’s chin then under his jaw, over one clavicle to mark a tiny damp spot on the collar of the tank top.

“Shit, sorry.” Marshall muttered feeling a whole lot like a mother and more like a klutz as he put the glass down on the table. Tay swiped absently under his chin but the trickle still laid there, a trail of liquid and Marshall looked around for something to wipe it away. Tay looked like one of those people from the psych ward at the jail with that line of water on his chin and Marshall didn’t like it.

Just when he thought he’d need to check the bathroom he saw a box of tissues on the table at the other side of the huge bed. Goddamn, how big was this thing? The other table looked miles away.

“Hold up, a’aight.” Marshall murmured, using one hand to steady himself as he reached for the Kleenex.

He felt Tay lean forward in a move so slow Marshall’s first thought was, ‘Shit, fainted…’ before he felt wet warmth, suction, and the barest hint of teeth at his throat.

Marshall froze in that stupid pose, one arm flung out, one braced on the bed, a knee bent, froze as his mind blanked completely out on him. The mouth on his neck didn’t freeze, though, not at all. It nuzzled and kissed and bit softly at the taut tendons there, little pants in the stillness of the room and Marshall closed his eyes because, fuck, _fuck_ , he was hard, got hard right there in seconds and there was no hiding it, no denying it in this position.

“Tay…” his voice shook as he tried to push the warm body away and Tay made protesting noises back in his throat and leaned closer and suddenly hands were everywhere, his waist, his arms, those long, graceful fingers and, shit, they were warm, warm and confident with rougher tips and…

No. Jesus Christ, no, he couldn’t _do_ this! Words like UNPROFESSIONAL CONDUCT and COMPROMISED INVESTIGATION tried to interrupt and he listened, he did, he heard them; tried to push Tay away but Tay whimpered, moved his mouth to the heated shell of his ear and licked, bit at his earlobe with gentle teeth that made Marshall shiver.

“Taylor…Tay….” It’s all his blown apart mind could come up with and touching him was a mistake, it was the biggest fucking mistake because the flesh was alive and hot and <i>eager</i> in his hands, the body he’d been staring at and wondering about was right there, all over him, straining against his chest, a long, pajama clad leg hooking around his waist. “S-stop...,” his voice was hoarse, struggling, “you gotta….” Tay sucked hard at his neck up behind his ear. “ _Shit_ …stop….”

God, he was so hard, so fucking hard….

He tried again to push Tay away and disentangle himself, but Tay made a desperate sound, clinging to him and, fuck! He put his hand <i>there</i>, shocking Marshall still.

“I know you want to,” Tay whispered, moist breath in his ear, “I can feel you want me.” Skillful fingers cupped him through his boxers, started to pump, no messing around, no exploring. Sure, strong strokes that knew where he lived and Marshall’s hips thrust into Tay’s hand without his permission exploding fireworks along his nerves in Technicolor.

“Fuck! Taylor,” Marshall could barely talk, gripping bruises on Tay’s arms with his hands, he knew, and he couldn’t—he’d never ever so much as kited a pack of cigarettes on duty and he couldn’t—stop—this to save his life, he couldn’t….

“Yes.” Tay’s whisper sizzled in his ear, along his skin, “Fuck.” And he was so far, far gone.

With a growl of defeat he pushed Tay against the headboard, pinning his arms, dislodging that evil mouth enough to look at him. Wild hair, red, swollen mouth from kissing, but his eyes, his eyes were…not dead, not empty but <i>there</i>, deep with want, wanting him, wanting this…He crawled up on Tay, moved a leg high between Tay’s thighs and moaned at the hard knot he found, at Tay’s tortured sound and how he twisted his head hard at the contact.

“Yes,” Tay whispered, voice feverish, fingers raking across his back under the t-shirt, already pushing his boxers down, away, gripping his ass and nuzzling his neck through the furious blush that washed over Marshall’s face.

He tried, again, to get himself together, still trying to quit this before… but Tay slid a hand between them and squeezed him, ran a ruthless thumb just under the head of his cock and Marshall’s brain imploded in a spangle of stars. His hands fumbled for the waist of Tay’s pants through the comforter and Tay lifted his hips, caused another starburst as the pulsing heat crushed against Marshall’s, so hard, and somehow they got Tay’s leg out of the pajama pants, one satin, long limbed thigh and softly furred calf locking around Marshall’s waist and pushing his boxers the rest of the way down with a heel. And. And.

They came together, naked from the waist down and Marshall exhaled roughly. Tay bit his lip, chin tucking in and both legs hooked around Marshall’s waist, sliding along his hips, rubbing and drawing in, one still covered in the stupid pajama pants and any other time he’d find that funny…

“Stop,” he gasped, his body singing at the delicious slide of Tay’s cock next to his, at sharp hip bones, skin so soft in his hands. “Tay....”

“Please,” Tay whispered into his neck, starting the wicked sucking-biting-licking that made Marshall forget his own name.  " _Please_."

“We don’t got… I don’t…..” Marshall panted in his last grasp at sanity because they didn’t have any stuff, because he'd worked homicide, he used to walk a beat, and he wasn’t some ignorant fuck that didn’t know you NEEDED _stuff_.

Not letting Marshall go Tay flung one arm out, swept it across the table knocking over the water glass and a book before he yanked open a drawer, groped inside, and took out a white tube a handful of condoms.

Marshall started to laugh weakly into Tay’s shoulder because, aw Jesus Christ, so much for that excuse and he was fucking doomed and he wished he gave one damn right now. The laughter cut right off when Tay brought the condom up to his puffy lips and ripped it open, the look on his face serious, almost fierce.

Marshall jumped when Tay stroked him again, just this shy of too rough and it felt fucking unbelievable. Women didn’t do that, didn’t know to do that, always too gentle and too careful when all he wanted to do was be jerked hard. The cold of the condom jolted him as Tay rolled it on with a practiced hand, but not as much as when Tay hitched one leg up on his shoulder and pushed his ass close to Marshall’s dick, dancing around it, bumping it with the round curves.

“Shit.” Marshall whispered, fingers digging into the flesh of Tay’s hips, everything in him screaming for connection, contact, and no, they needed, they hadn’t even used the….Tay pulled him close frantically, long legs so strong as they pulled him down, _in_ and both gasped as Marshall’s cock found entrance, nudged in a little, then a little more.

“Yes,” Tay hissed, wrapping both legs around Marshall’s’ waist, hugging him around the neck, holding on as if Marshall was gonna push him off; as if the was even an option. Not when Marshall was clasped in the tightest, hottest place he’d ever felt, not when he could see Tay’s flushed face, parted lips and half-closed eyes holding him so, so close.

“God, Taylor,” Marshall whispered, rocking his hips and slid home, balls deep, and moaned at the unreal feel of it, too many sensations buzzing all over him: silky skin, snug tight hold, the fine hairs on Tay’s legs brushing over his ass every time Marshall thrust, moving in him. Tay keened, hands roaming desperately, like he couldn’t find where to grab, where to touch. Marshall rolled his hips low and pushed hard and Tay threw back his head exposing the long, damp line of his neck and Marshall had to taste it, feel it in his mouth as he pumped.

“Ah, oh fuck,” Tay panted, arching into him, hands cradling his skull, hooking up under his shirt to grasp handfuls of back, the scrape of his nails only another electric spark in the overload of sensation.

He couldn’t be that comfortable curled up against the back of the bed like that, knees bent up his chest but the thought kept getting lost in all the heat and sound and movement drowning him, pulling him deep. He’d picked up a rhythm now, short, strong pumps that made Tay moan and shake and , “Yes…yes….”, tensed up and Jesus Marshall hoped Tay was close because any minute he’d , he’s have to…

“Oh god,” Tay whispered brokenly, hands fisting Marshall’s t-shirt at his shoulders as he opened his eyes, body quivering under Marshall, skin flushed pink in the low warm light. One hand frantically burrowed between them to grab the hot erection that had been stabbing and rubbing there, and started to pump, quick, uneven strokes, lust clouding the blue of his eyes, but… his eyes, they looked more open than Marshall had ever seen, deep, and alive, and so fucking beautiful that his hands cupped the burning cheeks of Tay’s face, tilted his jaw, and locked their mouths together.

Tay gave a surprised sound as Marshall coaxed the petal soft lips open for him, brushing into the sweet wet as Tay’s trembling hand found his jaw, his neck, like it didn’t know where to land. Tay didn’t close his eyes and Marshall didn’t care; watched the sky blue as Tay’s lashes fluttered, flew open, then squeezed shut with a moan as Marshall searched deeper with his mouth, hit deeper with his hips, now slow, long strokes. “Mmm, _mmm_ ,” Tay moaned, hand suddenly spasming on Marshall bicep, body tight, and Marshall thrust once more before Tay thrashed and clung and came, bloom of warmth between them, sobs spilling into Marshall’s mouth.

He was close, he could feel it, Tay’s sounds, his slack lips and glazed stare as Marshall pumped just hurried it along and then Tay _did_ something down there, clenched muscles so it felt like a hand gripped him hard. Marshall shouted into the damp curve of Tay’s neck as all his senses exploded at once in a burst of silver heat that just went on and on in him.

  
*~*~*~**~

He came to sprawled over Tay, face still buried in the salty hollow of Tay’s neck, bare assed with the damp front of their shirts sticking them together. The warm light of the bed lamp still shone. Bill sat curled up in a corner of the bed, nose buried in his bushy tail.

Every fiber of his being logged a protest against moving. Uh-uh, fuck that, dog, they said as Marshall lifted up on his elbow with a grunt, stopping when he saw Tay’s sleeping face, slack and peaceful.

Messy blond hair spread all over the pillow, shining against the checkered black, and he slept deeply with slow, even breaths and one arm still partly hooked around Marshall’s neck. Otherwise every muscle looked relaxed, still, long leg stretched out over the comforter, the other <i>still</i> with the stupid pajama pants on, his cock resting against a pale thigh, soft and asleep.

Removing Tay’s arm slowly from around his neck he sat up and took the condom off, dumping it in the small wastebasket near the bed then pulled off Tay’s sleep pants leaving him totally bare except for the tank top. He also wiped at the sticky mess they made with the edge of the black sheet which felt real expensive in his hands, but he didn’t have anything else. The tissues he never got last night still looked too far away over there on the other side of the huge ass bed. He wanted to take off Tay’s tank top but he didn’t want to wake Tay up so he didn’t. Marshall did pull off his comey t-shirt hands shaking with fatigue.

The clock on the other side of the bed said it was five forty-five in the morning but it felt like it should be later.

He should…his exhausted mind went blank on him ‘cause yeah, yo, what the hell should he do after fucking the star witness and breaking about a dozen procedural laws? What…?

Tay’s brows knit in sleep and he gave an unhappy breath the smooth peace of his face changing.

Marshall reached over and smoothed a thumb across the line that appeared between the silky dark brows and Tay sighed turning over. Tay’s feet fit behind his in his sleep, tugging him close and Marshall gave up. His drained mind just couldn’t handle everything that being here like this with Tay meant. He could barely keep his eyes open. The knot on his head thudded in a dull rhythm, but he couldn’t even work up enough energy to go take a pain pill.

He collapsed more than lay down and Tay made a content sound shuffling his butt up against Marshall’s lap. Marshall hugged him close after pulling only the sheet over them because Tay felt like a little oven, all warm and toasty, like the times Hailie used to sleep between he and Kim when she was scared. And he probably shouldn’t be thinking about this and his daughter at the same time but the thought fragment just floated away as sleep reclaimed him, took him down while he breathed Tay in: soap, shampoo, skin, and the lingering scent of sex.

*~*~*~*~

MORNING

Marshall turned over on his stomach on the soft, soft sheets he didn’t remember putting on his bed then grunted when his bladder bitched. Slitting his eyes open he blinked at a bookcase full of novels and a framed poster of U2 and the realization that he wasn’t at home, he woke up alone, and he had to pee settled over him all at once.

His arm reached across the enormous bed anyway, but the sheets were cold, had been cold for awhile. Turning his head Marshall buried his face in the expensive pillowcase and inhaled in spring fresh detergent and him and Tay together. He rolled on his back with a sigh and put his arm over his face.

It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t been a fucked up hallucination from too many pain meds and he was not gonna open his eyes and end up on the couch in the living room with the fucking cat staring down at him. Last night happened. Or this morning. Or whatever.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He had woken up naked in Taylor Hanson’s bed. He had…Marshall rubbed his face as if he could erase the memories that him thick and fast /warm pale long limbs sweet mouth tight tight ass and /yes...yes...YES/. His cock twitched with its early morning hard on and he told it too shut up. That was the least of his problems now.

He didn’t know why he wasn’t panicking and shit. Freaking out, feeling disgusted, any of that. He thought he would, should, but, no. No dice. He just still felt tired, sleepy. He had to piss and he felt horny at the same time and that combo sucked so he pushed himself on his arms and looked around as if Tay was gonna be sitting on the low bench under the window or something.

Maybe _he_ was freaking out, panicking, feeling disgusted.

What the hell did you do, Mathers? The voice in his head that sounded like Les asked and he blinked hard.

He’d had sex with a guy. That’s what he’d done. Not just any guy. A witness in a murder investigation. Not just any witness, but Taylor fucking Hanson.

Marshall sat in bed and waited.

No freaking.

He’d obviously lost his damn mind last night along with any perspective he might have had.

Maybe he’d have a delayed reaction. After he’d peed and had some Mountain Dew and took some more pain meds. Yeah.

Getting up he felt that good strain on his muscles someone only got from a really good fuck. Backs of the thighs, abs, a little sheet burn on the knees. His calves also felt cramped and overused but that was probably from the marathon run last night.

Bending over, he snagged the black track pants from the floor and pulled them on, wishing he had a t-shirt. Then he really had to go to the bathroom so he forgot about it.

As he washed his hands in Tay’s color coordinated bathroom, his bare feet sunk ankle deep in the plush bath mat, he looked at himself in the mirror. A scruffy thirty-two year old cop stared back. Black eye. White bandage starting to peel on his temple. Row of dusky red bite marks all up his neck. / “I can feel you want me.”/ A wave of lust came up on him from nowhere, strong and fast and he gripped the sink, shutting his eyes, breathing hard.

He was hard.

No. No, uh-uh. One time, yeah, one time could be a mistake. A fluke, weakness last night from the chase and the killer getting away and Tay looking all lost and broken and sick. One time. More than once—more than once was different. More than once was for real.

He made himself think of turning in his badge, his gun. Of starting over at his age when being murder police was the only thing he’d ever wanted; the only thing he’d ever been good at. The only thing that saved him from being a two-bit bum hanging out on the corner and flipping burgers at the local diner.

Nothing was worth that. Nothing.

He wasn’t hard anymore. Good. Okay. He had to get a goddamn grip.

Splashing water on his face he walked out of the bathroom, across the bedroom, and into the empty apartment.

Looking around and wondering if maybe Tay was so freaked out he took off he heard the French doors open.

Tay walked in from outside. He wore his jacket but no scarf, the gray sweats, and some wool slippers. He had some bed head going and a worried look on the beautiful face and Marshall felt the long, slow, helpless fall of his stomach as he looked at him. The smudges under Tay’s eyes looked better but he looked down as he slipped off the jacket, pushing up the sleeves of the while thermal shirt from last night.

Before Marshall could open his mouth to say something, anything, before the crappy morning-after awkwardness got a good hold Tay said, “Um.”

Marshall shut his mouth and crossed his arms. He’d crossed the line. He knew that. The least he could do was hear Tay out.

“I’ve….” Tay leaned took a deep breath and leaned against the couch, gripping the back with both hands. “I haven’t kissed anyone in four years.”

Marshall stared at him, playing back the words. Tay chewed his bottom lip and Marshall saw a red bite mark on Tay’s neck he didn’t remember making. He played the words back again.

“What?” he said quietly.

“I...did. After the accident when…when I was fucked up.” He cleared his throat a little, lashes lowering. “I didn’t remember anything. When I kissed someone clean it...” Tay scrunched up his brows; looked away. “I couldn’t handle it. The feelings and the…the memories. So I…stopped.”

“You dated,” Marshall said like an idiot because it’s not like Tay said it to him. “ Kwong said...”

“We didn’t kiss.” Tay said, voice low, and flashes of last night popped up, the look in Tay’s eyes when Marshall grabbed his face and pressed their mouths together. He thought he’d just knocked Tay back but it was…he’d….and Tay hadn’t….

“I’m sorry, man, I…” Marshall ran a hand over his hair feeling like the biggest asshole but Tay shook his head quickly.

“No! Don’t be I…I liked it,” A pink blush sprouted on both cheeks as Marshall watched. “I wanted you to.”

The ugly feeling in Marshall’s chest loosened up a little.

“But um, now,” Tay continued and Marshall tensed up again. The blush hadn’t left. “I was wondering…want,” he struggled and seemed to take another breath before lifting open, blue, blue eyes to Marshall’s. “Could we try it without the sex…please?”

Something deep and aching turned over in his chest at the words and Marshall looked in Tay’s eyes, hands at his sides, the logical part of his mind that kept blabbing on about misconduct and rules was just wordless noise in the background. He could barely hear it at all. It wasn’t calling the shots.

Marshall nodded slowly, holding Tay’s eyes and thought the nervousness would fade but it didn’t. Tay swallowed, lashes flickering to Marshall’s mouth and Marshall wondered if he was thinking of last night, how they tasted, how Tay had come when Marshall kissed him.

He approached Tay where Tay leaned against the couch. Little chuffs of breath panted from Tay’s lips and the blush had never really left. Marshall made sure his hands stayed at his sides even if his palms fucking _itched_ to touch Tay’s hipbones, the smooth line of his back.

Tay’s eyes looked almost pleading now, kinda scared so Marshall leaned in and just—brushed their lips together, light touch, just to start. He felt Tay’s breath stutter, lashes closed tight so only the starry tips showed.

He wanted to ‘sshhh’ him, to ease the tension out because hadn’t they just been naked a few hours ago? But that had been different. That had been fast, rough, no time to think. Not this.

Marshall snubbed their noses gently, ghosting his lips over Tay’s mouth until he finally pressed on the soft, soft lips with his, opened, and licked at them a little.

Tay made a needy, throaty sound and opened, too, parting to let him inside the warm, wet and he was <i>there</i> drowning in Tay’s taste, toothpaste, faint cigarettes, coffee but sweet somehow, he didn’t know how. He bit at Tay’s velvety lower lip, got a scrub of Tay’s morning shadow on his chin and the scratchiness sparked awareness in him like nothing else did, of who he’d been with, pressed up against, come in, and it just made him want it again, him again.

He could feel Tay shaking as Marshall tried not to touch him, little tremors vibrating while Marshall swam in Tay’s mouth, lost all his sense of time there, placed his hands on the couch on either side of Tay’s so he could shift angles and explore some more.

Tay pulled away, breathing hard into Marshall’s mouth, eyes closed and they played around each other’s faces, the silky brush of Tay’s nose, his cheek, when suddenly Tay strained into him, caught his lips with a moan. Marshall grunted in surprise then gasped quietly as his erection met Tay’s and pushed against it, his hand giving in and holding the slim waist, rubbing at the jut of hip bones. Tay’s legs stood wide, one hooked around his calf pulling him closer as they breathed around the kiss and Tay kept shaking the whole time, fine quivers, but before Marshall could pull away to see if he was a’aight Tay’s fingers closed around his hand and dragged it between the long open legs.

Marshall outlined the hardness there and Tay gasped raggedly onto his neck, almost like crying, body shaking harder as Marshall slipped his hand in the waist of the gray sweats and jacked him rough and fast like Tay did to him. Marshall felt hard, heavy, but nothing could make him stop, stop hearing Tay make those sounds, stop making Tay scratch trails down his back and dig his face in Marshall’s neck to muffle the raw breathing as the slim hips thrust into Marshalls’ fist. Turning his head, searching with his mouth until he found Tay’s he smeared their lips together, seeking entrance, nipping, licking; ran a thumb ruthlessly over the leaking head of Tay’s cock and Tay shouted and came all over his hand.

Marshall tightened his hold around the slim waist as Tay slumped. His arm almost went all the way around and he looked for somewhere to wipe the wetness off.

Then Tay burst into tears.

For long seconds Marshall had no clue what to do; felt like a jerk again, standing there with come on his fingers while Tay trickled tears onto his bare chest.

“Hey,” he whispered after giving up and wiping his hand on his track pants. “Ssshh…”

“I’m okay,” Tay insisted, still crying so hard Marshall could barely understand him, “I’m okay. Really, I’m …” a fresh round of sobs took away the words and Marshall rubbed his back where they stood propped against the couch with Bill the cat watching them from his seat on the papasan chair. You are both fucked up, the flat green eyes said.

Marshall couldn’t exactly disagree.

“Come on,” Marshall pulled him off the couch, held him as Tay stumbled, guided the taller, lanky figure over to the weird low bed and sat him down with Tay insisting through the tears that he was fine, he was okay.

“Yeah, I know,” Marshall made him lay down and pulled off the slippers and the gray sweats that had a big wet spot in the front.

“I’m so-sorry,” Tay hitched, face splotchy, blue swimming in tears, “I’m okay.”

Marshall pulled the sheet over him and ran a hand over the messy hair. Tay’s red-rimmed eyes shut tight freeing tears to run all the way down the side of his face into his ears while the sobs still hitched his breath every few minutes.

Marshall’s cell rang and he cursed softly and stepped out of the room as he flicked it open.

“Mathers. ‘Sup.”

“Daddy?” his daughter’s excited voice bubbled in his ears and Marshall turned from looking at Tay’s tear-streaked face.

“Hey, baby. How are you?”

“Mommy wants to know if you’re still picking me up for lunch. I told her you were but she made me call.”

“Yeah, yeah, honey.” Marshall slapped his hand to his forehead and winced when he bumped the bandage and the tender skin beneath it. “I’m just gonna be a little late, a’aight? I worked last night.”

“Mommy’s got a date but I can wait by myself. I’m not a <i>baby</i>.” Hailie’s scornful voice told Marshall this was not the first time his daughter and his ex-wife had had that argument. It wasn’t until later that he noticed he didn’t get the twinge he usually got when he heard about Kim dating someone.

“Naw, you’re my big girl. Lemme talk to your moms, a’aight?”

But Kim had already taken the phone her agitated voice scraping on his nerves in seconds flat.

“Are you picking her up? If you’re not you should have called before now. I have plans; you’re not the only one with a life Marshall.”

A life. Yeah. He’d lived and breathed The Rose Killer for months and waking up with Tay was the first time he hadn’t woken up alone in over a year. Maybe longer.

“Yeah, Kim, I’m picking her up. Chill the fuck out.”

“He’ll be here, mommy!” Hailie’s voice sounded in the background.

“I’m just gonna be late, a’aight? I’m on a case.”

“Yeah.” Kim said shortly. It’s all she had to say. The unsaid arguments of years past floated across the wires without a word: <i>you’re always on a case when are you NOT on a case what about me? What about Hailie? She barely sees you why don’t you apply for a desk job its more money it’s safer blah blah blah/</i>.

“I kinda got banged up a little, too. It’s nothing. I’m just saying.” He warned Kim about stuff like this now because it was better than having her hear it from Hailie and then having her call him to bitch later.

He heard Kim’s sigh and braced himself, but her next words flared anger in him anyway. “If you didn’t hang out at those dives you wouldn’t get into fights.”

“I wasn’t at a fucking bar, a’aight? I got this at work. Believe what you want.”

“Fine, alright.” Kim did an about face suddenly all contrite and shit <i>after</I> she already said that in front of Hailie. “How late are you going to be?”

“An hour tops.”

“Fine.”

“Lemme talk to her.”

Kim gave up the phone without saying good bye and he wondered for the hundredth time how the hell they ended up like this. He checked Tay again and saw only a mop of blond hair over the blanket.

“I told her daddy.”

“I know, baby. Your mama’s just making sure. I’ll see you in a little bit, a’aight?”

“Can we go to IHOP?”

“Whatever you want. I promise.”

“Okay,” he heard her smile all the way through the phone and they hung up after he told her he loved her.

He had completely spaced that this was his weekend with Hailie. He’d never put catching crazy fuckers in front of her ‘cause there was always more of them. His daughter only grew up once.

Glancing at the clock he saw that he’d slept later than he had in awhile and he had maybe two hours to get his shit together.

At least his hard on went away. Between Tay breaking down and Hailie’s voice he’d had no problem <i>at all</i> controlling that.

Rubbing his eyes he walked in the bedroom to check on Tay and found him breathing deeply his cheeks still damp from his tears.

What he hell had he done? He asked himself again but he didn’t have any more answers than before.

After putting a glass of water next to the bed table he took decided to shower at his place and change into clean clothes for Hailie’s visit.

He also checked the charge on his cell so he could call Tay later.

Just in case.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case, and Marhsall's involvement with Tay, progress.

Cinemark Theatre  
5:45 p.m.

Marshall sank lower in the seat and smiled at his daughter’s face in the white-blue light of the movie previews. Hailie sat cross-legged balancing a huge tub of popcorn on her lap and sipping at a large soda. Her blond hair had gotten long, longer than he’d seen it, and she held it away from her face with a row of tiny plastic hair clips in different colors. Each time he saw her she looked more and more like Kim.

Normally they wouldn’t be sitting here at all.

He didn’t take her to movies when he had his weekend. They took up two to three hour chunks of time, time when he could be talking to her and listening to her and convincing himself he wasn’t a spectator in his own daughter’s life. They went to the Zoo or ice skating or to the Natural Science Museum since it was the only one Marshall could go to without being bored out of his mind.

This time, though, here they sat.

They’d gone to IHOP after he sped home and changed, and it took him half an hour of assurances before Hailie stopped staring at his face in distress. He’d asked her about school and her friends and listened to her prattle on about having to choose between choir and drill team, and how hard Math was, and how Tigger peed on mommy’s favorite shoes and they’d fought when Kim wanted to throw the cat outside for the night.

Except he kept fucking spacing out in the middle of the conversation, then wigging seriously when he realized he’d been thinking about the curve of Tay’s Adam’s apple or the hungry way Tay bit at his lips, like he was starving, and he’d come to in the middle of Hailie’s chatter and realized he was fantasizing about <i>fucking</i> while he was with his daughter, goddammit! That was just all kinds of wrong and it kept fucking happening no matter how much he tried to concentrate, and he kept hating himself for being a perv and a lousy dad.

When Hailie started to whine about Kim not taking her to see some movie with Hailie’s latest favorite actress because it was PG-13 and Hailie was only eight but she was _the only one that hadn't seen it daddy, it's not FAIR_ , Marshall grabbed the way out with both hands and hated himself for doing it.

As the opening scene started, Marshall slouched lower in the seat and tried not to fall asleep.

*~*~*~*  
The movie wasn’t too bad, though he couldn’t remember fifteen year old girls looking like that when he was fifteen. The kid had bigger tits than Kim, and they didn’t look real. Other than that the movie really was pretty innocent. Some boy-meets-girl stuff, a few kisses, no T and A, and lots of drama. He hadn’t lost too many brain cells, but he had zoned out through most of it.

“What do you wanna do now, baby?” Marshall asked as they exited the crowded theater with all the other little girls and their parents. Some of them looked liked they snuck in a nap, too.

They’d caught the last matinee and the rest of the weekend stretched before them, free and clear.

“Can I see Beretta?”

“Yeah, yeah. I gotta check on him, too,” He added before he could stop himself, and Hailie gave him a little wrinkle browed look but then spied one of her friends, and it disappeared.

She seemed to have inherited his short attention span.

*~*~

The apartment felt musty and abandoned when Marshall opened the door to let Hailie in.

Since being assigned to Tay, he really hadn’t spent that much time here.

/Being assigned? That what they’re calling it?/ the snarky voice in his head piped up and he ignored it.

A layer of dust covered everything, a few dishes sat abandoned in the sink and some mailbox circulars from two weeks ago lay spread on the coffee table from when he last changed Beretta’s cage. All the hamster books said to do it every week, but Marshall usually let it go longer than that. Beretta hated it when Marshall moved all his hiding places and nests, and the little animal spent two days after a cage cleaning, furiously re-stripping newspaper and hoarding food. Doing it every week would drive the hamster batshit.

“Hi, baby! Hi!” Hailie ran to the cage and cooed while Beretta squinted at her from his corner where he nibbled corn and burrowed deeper in his paper and wood shaving cave, giving Hailie his ass. His daughter removed the screen top to the cage and reached in to pet the little animal, which only caused Beretta to burrow deeper in his cave.

“Be careful, baby. He don’t like to be picked up when he’s eating.”

“I know.” Hailie said, but she kept stroking the brown and white fur with a finger and Marshall let her go. He hated to nag, hearing it and doing it, and if Hailie got a little bite, well, she’d learn her lesson.

“I’m gonna make a phone call, a’aight? Be right back,” He called and Hailie nodded, still bent over the cage. Beretta had started to sniff her fingers.

“Okay, daddy.”

Marshall picked up the phone and walked in his bedroom with it.

He’d actually sprung for a two-bedroom when he and Kim split up because he wanted Hailie to have her own space when she was here. A year and a half later, Hailie’s room still looked empty with just a bed and the small dresser he’d bought on sale, clothes only taking up the first drawer. Actually, she usually ended up sleeping in his bed even though she started out in hers. Sometimes she conked out in front of the TV and he’d leave her there rather than wake her. He guessed he could downgrade to a one-bedroom and save some money but he didn’t have the time and he hated moving.

Giving Hailie one more glance he dialed Tay’s number by heart and listened to its rings go on and on before voicemail picked up.

“Yo, Tay. This Marshall. I was just… checkin’ on you. See how you were doin’. I’m with my daughter and… it’s my weekend with her…” Fuck, he sounded stupid. “I’ll try you later, ‘kay? Bye.”

He hung up and told himself Tay was fine. So what if it was five-thirty in the afternoon. Tay could be in the shower or... the shower.

“Who’s Tay, daddy?” He turned at the sound of Hailie’s voice to see her propped against the doorframe, head tilted in question. Her blond hair fell around her shoulders from the many plastic clips, and her face was slowly losing the baby roundness. She looked so grown up all of a sudden that his throat ached. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

The question surprised a laugh right out of him, for the irony along with everything else. “No, baby. I don’t got a girlfriend.”

“Mommy has a boyfriend.” Hailie shrugged, hands in the front pockets of her jeans and her eyes downcast.

Marshall sat on the bed and she walked in, dropping down beside him.

“Yeah?” Kim had started dating an embarassingly short time after they separated. It had taken all he had not to accuse her of having someone on stand-by the whole time they’d been having problems. She’d gone through about four ‘boyfriends’ by now, though, so he didn’t pay them too much attention. It was the first time he hadn’t gotten that tight feeling around his chest when he heard about her hookups, though.  
“You like him? He treat you a’aight?”

“He’s okay.” Hailie shrugged again, picking at the sparkles on her jeans. They had pink butterflies on the front. “Mommy says I should call him ‘Uncle Brendan’, but that’s dumb.”

It sounded dumb to Marshall, too, so he didn’t say anything.

“He bought me an iPod.” Hailie said, her face unsure, and Marshall wished again with all his heart he could somehow make this better for her, easier. He’d fought the divorce tooth and nail even though so many things felt fucked up beyond repair, because he’d grown up with no dad in the house. He wanted a real family for his little girl, and he never wanted to sit here in the position of assuring his daughter it was okay to like a present from the guy his ex-wife was fucking.

“That’s good,” he said, even though the words felt chalky in his mouth and that was just ridiculous. Hailie didn’t lack anything; she never had. Even when all he did was walk a beat, he made sure his family had all they needed, and since the divorce, he’d tried real hard not to be that guy, the asshole ex who tried to win over the kids by giving them presents.

He would fucking NOT let himself feel like the stupid iPod meant he was competing with Kim’s latest punk.

Hailie nodded, and he drew her into a hug, breathing in the strawberry scent of her shampoo and cloud of her body spray. She must use two or three but he couldn’t find it in him to talk to her about it. He’d gotten kinda used to it.

“So, who’s Tay, daddy?”

*~*~*~*~*~*

42nd Precinct  
Sunday, 7:58 p.m.  
Interrogation Room 5

“No lie, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been out of town for a week, for real. What is this about? Is it work? ‘Cause I’ve been doing real well there, ask my supervisor, I’ve been alright. I didn’t tell ‘me I had a record, right? But that shouldn’t matter. I mean, not that it <i>shouldn’t</I> matter, but I’ve kept my nose clean for almost a year. I’ve changed, honestly. I don’t do bad shit any more, for real. Hey, it’s kind of stuffy in here, isn’t it? Don’t you guys get claustrophobic? I have claustrophobia. My doctor says it’s from early childhood trauma, and boy, did I have some of that. Can I have a soda?”

Marshall leaned back in the folding chair and stared in disbelief at the sweating, babbling, dishwater blond drink of water in front of him. The headache behind his eyes had grown from a dull pound to a throb, pushing behind his eyes. He wanted to stab his eyeballs out.

Jonathan DeVries had been in the box for five hours. They’d picked him up at his apartment where he showed up, whistling and reeking of pot smoke, as he ambled to the front door with a duffel bag over his shoulder. The suits took him downtown and plunked him in the interrogation room to stew for a few hours while Poblanski called Marshall. They’d entered the room to start questioning, and the long-winded little fucker had not shut up since.

Marshall couldn’t remember when he’d had a murder suspect who was both scared shitless AND compulsively talkative.

“We’ll get you a soda in a minute, Jonathan,” Poblanski said from where he stood near the window, and the kid’s blue-gray eyes twitched over to Poblanski’s voice and blinked. He reminded Marshall of a mouse.

“Sure, yeah, no problem. I just have a problem with dehydration, I always have. I passed out in camp once- BOOM- smooth out because they took us on a five mile hi—“

“Where were you last night?” Marshall asked bluntly and DeVries’ left eye twitched even as he gave them a weak smile and started the motor mouthing again.

“I was just in Warren for a party, you know how you hear from someone that there’s free booze and shit and you take off looking for a good time and you get there and you don’t know no-one?”

“No.” Marshall said and watched DeVries scrunch up his brows trying to figure out what that was an answer to. Jesus Christ.

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts, Jonathan?” Poblanski asked, doing the kind-old-guy routine, and that was fine with Marshall. They didn’t usually good cop/bad cop anyone, but he’d had to take Hailie back two hours early when he got the call; Kim had not been happy, and he’d been sitting here, watching the spastic punk fidget and sweat with the sinking feeling in his stomach telling him they weren’t as ahead of the game as he thought they’d be when they collared this asshole. Not at all.

“I don’t know, I mean, didn’t really know anyone there when I got there; this guy from work told me about it but he never showed up so, you know how it is…”

“But you stayed.” Marshall pointed out, leaning his hands on the table and DeVries twitched at him.

“I’d already gotten there! And they were cool, but I didn’t get anyone’s number, I mean…” Marshall was going to shoot him if he said, “I mean,” one more time.

“So, basically, you don’t got an alibi.” Marshall said and DeVries went a little pale.

“Yeah, I do! I got my bus ticket!”

“You coulda bought that before. That don’t mean shit.”

“I didn’t do nothing! I don’t even know why I’m here! You can’t keep me here like this when I haven’t done nothing!” DeVries’ voice got a little shrieky, and Poblanski laid a comforting meaty hand on the scrawny shoulder.

That was just one of the things that felt off about the nervous kid sitting across the bench. Marshall had been trying to connect this person with the one he saw that night holding the knife and could not do it. He wished like hell he could remember something about the guy’s face but it had been too dark. Every instinct he had told him they had the wrong guy, but the evidence was pretty strong, even if most of it was circumstantial. The DNA results should tell them more.

“You gotta excuse Detective Mathers. He’s kinda intense.”

“Can I have a soda?” DeVries requested in the plaintive whine of a little kid.

“In a minute.” Poblanski smiled and kid shifted on the chair and started twitching again.

“You like music, Jonathan?” Marshall asked, “You listen to Hanson?”

“Hanson?” DeVries laughed in the first real reaction he’d had all day. “The MMM-Bop guys? No way, dude! I’m into Nine Inch Nails and The White Stripes.”

“So what were you doing with their CDs and DVDs in your apartment?” Marshall leaned over on his elbows and watched DeVries blink at him before shaking his head.

“Those aren’t mine, dog! They belong to a friend.”

“Really?” Marshall said.

“Yeah, for real. I don’t listen to that shit.” But he’d started twitching again, his left eye almost blinking with it, and Marshall narrowed his stare at him.

“You a religious man, Jonathan?” Poblanski asked then, voice casual and curious, and the kid cut a look at him.

“R-Religious. What do you mean?” Puzzlement had taken over some of the fear in the washed out blue eyes.

“You go to church when you were little? With your parents or something?”

“Uh. No... not… wait, are you gonna pull the God card?” DeVries asked, voice disbelieving, “Ain’t that illegal?”

“Answer the fucking question!” Marshall snapped and DeVries jumped like he’d been goosed again.

“No! No, I ain’t religious, alright? I don’t go to church, my folks never cared ‘cause they were too drunk to get up Sunday mornings, let alone to go to mass... what’s that got to do with anything?” DeVries asked, voice so pathetically lost Marshall's instincts believed him. A glance across the table at his partner’s eyes told him Poblanski thought the same thing.

The silence stretched taut as piano wire and only broke when a discrete tap sounded. Poblanski gave him a nod and they both stood.

“Sit tight, Jonathan. We’re gonna see about that soda.” Poblanski patted DeVries on the shoulder again, and the kid nodded, wiping at his upper lip with a hand.

With one last suspicious look at DeVries, Marshall got up to check on what forensics had found.

*~*~*

“Marshall Mathers.” ‘Mando greeted. “Hey, Les. What you think about him?” ‘Mando nodded towards the interrogation room.

“What do I think?” Marshall repeated, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t think that punk could drown a fucking cat without getting caught. That’s what I think.”

“Guy’s squirrelly, all the time squirrelly.” Poblanski tugged at his tie. “I ain’t seen someone that squirrelly since we busted that dealer killed his wife. Remember him?”

The drug dealer, who actually went by the street name Twitchy Mitch, had strangled his wife in one mother of a bad trip. Got some bad ‘shrooms or something. He twitched and itched the entire interrogation, eyes blinking a mile a minute and red hives covering him from head to toe. By the end, Marshall was itching just from watching him.

“’Sup. What you got for us?” Marshall eyed the several manila folders in ‘Mando’s hands.

“The team went over every inch of his apartment. Homeboy don’t do much housecleaning.”

“Good for us,” Marshall muttered.

“No lie.” ‘Mando opened the first folder and took out a sheet.

“The only fingerprints at the apartment were the suspect’s but those sheets looked nasty, dog. I’m testing his DNA against The Rose Killer’s but I bet we get his sample off them and then some.”

Marshall nodded. He thought they’d get more than one set of DNA, too. He just didn’t know whose.

“Also found three sets of hair around the bathroom and the bed, too. Good epithelials. Same sitch. <i>And</I>…” ‘Mando pulled out a baggie with petals in it, the same kind of petals from the letters, only these were fresh and soft, almost dewy.

“Found two rose bushes in his living room under a homemade greenhouse. The petals match.”

Marshall took the baggie and studied it, sifting through the evidence in his head and trying to match it up with the spastic dork they had in holding. The rose bushes alone could get them an arrest for theft and buy them some time, but the rest still felt off, wrong. He’d been at this too long to distrust his instincts.

“Ernie got into the hard drive on the computer, too. Found a whole lotta something something.” Marshall caught the slight hesitation before ‘Mando gave over another folder, and Marshall glanced at him before looking inside.

For several seconds his eyes refused to compute what they saw, and it wasn’t because he’d never seen gay porn before. He’d busted enough back room jerk off outfits and trounced enough bookstores with a take on the side to never have seen gay porn. He just hadn’t seen any with Tay in it.

The first few pictures looked pretty harmless: a couple of shirtless shots by a pool and in a room with lots of plants. Tay looked younger in them, late teens, maybe. Then the pictures got more graphic. Tay and some young guy making out, first with open jeans then without them. Then oral sex stills, the guy going down on Tay and finally sex photos and he’d seen that expression, hadn’t he? He’d made Tay look like that. He recognized it.

‘Mando was saying something, but Marshall couldn’t quite hear it through the sick pounding in his ears.

“What?” he said faintly and didn’t look up until ‘Mando repeated himself.

“I said ‘They ain’t real.” ‘Mando repeated, cutting a questioning look at Poblanski. Marshall looked up, met the sympathetic, tired eyes of his partner and pulled his shit together fast.

“The fuck does that mean?”

“They’re manips, yo. Manipulations. You take someone’s face off a website or a picture, scan it, and paste the image on whatever you want. It ain’t even that hard. Ernie enlarged the pictures and the pixels didn’t match up, not on Hanson or the other guy. Pretty good work, though.”

“So that ain’t him?” Marshall asked, the acid in his stomach going from sinking shock to anger and deep relief he wasn’t even going to think about.

“Naw, man. None of those are him. Tell you what though. Ernie found three hundred manipulated images of that Hanson cat on homeboy’s computer, most of them hardcore. Homeboy got a jones.”

“That ain’t DeVries, though,” Poblanski spoke and Marshall knew it wasn’t. The hair was different, a more honey blond than DeVries’ lank dishwater color and the face more angular, more square.

“That’s where we’re at. When I know more, you’ll get the 411.” ‘Mando walked off to the lab after knocking knuckles with him.

Marshall felt the sweat off his hands slick on the folders and wondered if he’d leave damp spots on them.

“I’m going back in,” he said.

“Marsh.”

“Get the kid a soda, I’m goin’ in.”

“Marsh.”

“I’m a’aight.” He said, too harsh, probably, but Poblanski accepted, finally, and gave him a resigned look as he shuffled off towards the vending machines.

He stood in the hall and breathed deep for a few seconds. When he was pretty sure he could question DeVries without shaking the answers out of him he stepped back in the box.

DeVries looked up and kept staring at the door after Marshall shut it, probably waiting for Poblanski’s kind old self to walk through. When he didn’t, DeVries got an unhappy worried look on his pale face.

Marshall tossed the folder on the table and DeVries jumped then stared at the spill of pictures that slid out. His face turned pink and sweat popped out on his upper lip.

“I thought you didn’t listen to Hanson.” Marshall sat on the table and leveled a look down at the fidgeting kid. DeVries peered up at him, twitching, and looked even more like a rabbit. “What the fuck is that?”

“It ain’t illegal! Those are public images. Lots of people…”

“I didn’t say it was illegal.” Marshall kept his voice calm, very calm. “I asked what was up with that? If you ain’t down with that music, how come you made up three hundred pictures of Taylor Hanson fucking?”

“Okay, those aren’t mine, okay?” DeVries was starting to repeat himself again. Marshall glared at him.

“Okay, they’re mine, I mean, they’re on my system, but they aren’t for me! I made ‘em for this guy. The CDs and shit are his!” Fucking great. The punk was going for the ‘It ain’t mine!’ defense. If Marshall had a dime for every time some perp pulled that one he could retire.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Just some guy.” DeVries hedged, a trickle of sweat making its way down his temple. “A guy, a guy at work, you know, people find out you got some skills and everyone wants bootlegs and downloads…”

“Name.”

“I’m… not supposed to say, alright? It’s like client privilege!” The skinny kid was almost wringing his hands and another block of Marshall’s patience took the midnight train to Georgia.

Some of it must have shown on his face because when the door opened and Poblanski walked in, the relief all over DeVries’ features was so total it was almost funny. Or would have been if Marshall wasn’t ready to whale on the punk from frustration.

“Here ya go, Jonathan. Sorry for the wait, the machine on this floor was out.”

“It’s okay.” DeVries popped the tab and guzzled down half the Coke without stopping.

“Tell you what, Jonathan.” Poblanski continued as DeVries wiped his mouth and looked from one to the other in nervous trapped circles. “Tell us the name, we’ll get you cleared, and you could probably go home that much faster.” It didn’t even occur to DeVries that Poblanski hadn’t even been there for that part of the conversation. He must have been watching from behind the one way glass and interrupted when Marshall looked like he was gonna kill the spastic kid.

“Cleared? Cleared from what?” A suspicious look came into the washed out blue eyes, and for a second he didn’t look like a confused clueless kid. For a second every single trip to county lockup showed on his face.

Poblanski caught his eye and Marshall sat back again and waited. Watched the reaction.

“Cleared from murder, Jonathan. That’s a good thing, right?”

“What???” Jonathan stood so quickly the chair fell over backwards with a clatter. “Murder? You think I killed someone? “

They looked at him in silence, and the kid started darting his eyes around the room like a hole would open up so he could escape. His complexion had gone positively cheesy and the twitch in his eye jumped convulsively.

“I didn’t kill nobody! I didn’t…!” Poblanski calmly righted the chair back up, the clatter deafening in the tense quiet.

“Sit down.” Marshall said and the kid dropped back into the folding chair like his legs weren’t gonna hold him. The front of his red t-shirt was starting to dot with perspiration and small drops pooled on the kid’s upper lip as he blinked at Marshall.

“I didn’t kill no-one, okay? I-I took the rosebushes, alright? I admit that, I took the rosebushes and I shouldna done that. I shouldna done that except I looked up roses on the ‘Net and they said some of the hybrids were real expensive and there’s a black market for them, you know that? And I hardly make anything cleaning toilets, so I took the rosebushes but I didn’t… I ain’t killed nobody! I ain’t…”

“Yeah, alright.” Poblanski said like he was agreeing with DeVries. “So I guess you got a good explanation for how the petals from the rose bushes you stole are the same kind that showed up on the Rose Killer’s signature... Right?” Poblanski’s voice sounded friendly and calm, and Marshall watched the kid look back and forth between them in that trapped rabbity way he kept doing.

“I…I don’t know! Honest I don’t… I didn’t kill nobody!”

“Alright, let’s calm down, let’s all just breathe.” Poblanski said soothingly.

“Do I need a lawyer?” DeVries asked shakily and Marshall leaned over so he was inches from the frightened face and could see the zit coming up on his chin, the pores of his nose and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“I don’t know, Jonathan.” Marshall said, “Do you?”

“That’s your right, you know that.” Poblanski said, “We’ll be happy to call one but you know once they get here we can’t do nothing for you. All the deals gotta go through them. You know how that goes, right?”

DeVries swallowed, knobby Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively and the thing that was bothering Marshall finally hit him: DeVries wasn’t ‘hot’, like all the witnesses said the Rose Killer was. Besides Tay, it wasn’t like Marshall noticed guys, but even he knew the scrawny ass kid with the droopy hair and the nervous twitch wouldn’t be anyone’s idea of a great hookup.

“Yeah. I know.” DeVries finally whispered.

“Alright. See? Now we’re getting’ somewhere.” Poblanski smiled. “We just need to figure out who you been entertaining is all, Jonathan.”

“I’ve got a… a... boyfriend.” DeVries said, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

“You cheat on him?” Marshall asked and the kid flashed him a resentful look.

“No! Not… we only got exclusive this weekend, okay? I ain’t no slut.”

“You with anyone before you were exclusive?” Poblanski asked.

“Yeah.” DeVries admitted reluctantly.

“Who?” Marshall asked and he saw it, the pained fear, the trepidation. The kid was holding something back; he could see it. “Who the hell are you protecting?” DeVries jumped at Marshall’s shout, about three inches from his face, eyes huge.

“Marsh.” Poblanski said but it was drowned out in DeVries’ babbling.

“No one! I’m not protecting anybody! I don’t know nothing! I don’t… you can’t keep me here without charging me!”

“Welcome to the Patriot Act, asshole.” Marshall said coldly. “We can keep you here forever.”

Horror started to dawn in the washed out blue and DeVries clutched both hands on his lap suddenly.

“I gotta go to the bathroom.” He whispered and Marshall caught Poblanski’s eyes.

“I’ll take ya, Jonathan. We could use a break anyhow.”

The kid stood and gave Marshall a wide berth as they walked out of the room. Marshall rubbed his face, then felt the buzzing of his pager at his waist. One glance told him it was the Lab so he took off for ‘Mando at a run.

*~*~*~

The Lab sat empty on a Sunday except for ‘Mando’s figure hunched over a microscope and the sound of the stereo. Some woman was begging your pardon because she never promised you a rose garden.

“You know what I’m gonna say, right?” ‘Mando said without lifting up from the microscope.

“He ain’t our guy.” Marshall sighed.

“He is not your guy, homes. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But.” He finally sat up and reached over for two pieces of paper with graphs on them. “Someone your little dude knows is.”

“The other sets of DNA?” Marshall hazarded and ‘Mando nodded, the light of the lab bristling off his buzz cut.

“Affirmative. One of the sets is a match to The Rose Killer. But they ain't your guy's.”

“Sonofabitch.” Marshall muttered. “And they don’t match _anybody_ else’s from the college or the greenhouse?”

“Naw.” ‘Mando answered, then, before Marshall could start to despair, “But check this out: we didn’t get everyone’s DNA. One guy refused to comply unless we had a court order. Said we could talk to his lawyer if we had a problem.”

“Yeah?” Marshall took the paper with the person’s name and stats that had refused to cough up the sample.

He was twenty four, six feet even with blond hair and blue eyes.

Marshall’s world narrowed to just that line of statistics printed on a plain sheet of paper, and the sound of his own breath got loud in his ears. He felt things shift, like puzzle pieces finally slid into place. The click in his head was deafening.

The door to the lab suddenly opened, and Marshall knew from the look on Poblanski’s face something had gone down.

“The kid lawyered up after all. Public defender can smell a headline case from a mile away.”

Marshall swore softly, before following him out the door. “I’ll get you the other DNA.” He called over his shoulder.

“Saving a spot for you, man.” ‘Mando returned. As the door shut, Marshall heard Guns & Roses’ ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ start on the stereo.

*~*~*~*

THREE HOURS LATER

Marshall walked in the break room, his vision almost blurry from the pounding headache.

They had been talking to DeVries non-stop, but, like always happened when attorneys got involved, the progress had ground to a fucking snail’s pace. Every time DeVries started to give, his attorney, this slick, fresh-faced little fucker with crafty eyes advised him to stop talking and DeVries clammed up. Finally, after four interruptions in one hour Poblanski suggested maybe counselor wanted some time to talk to his client before they proceeded any further, and DeVries jumped at that. Lucky for them. One more interruption and Marshall was gonna choke the junior lawyer with his own goddamn tie.

Poblanski had taken a restroom break, and Marshall pumped some quarters into the machine for a Coke. They didn’t have Mountain Dew, but he’d take what he could get. He glanced at his watch in passing and did a double at the time. He always forgot how much time interrogations ate up, time you didn’t even feel passing.

It was almost midnight. He reached for his cell and pressed Tay’s number.

Tay’s voice startled him. He didn’t realize until then that he really expected the machine to pick up.

“Hello?” Tay repeated, voice low and suspicious.

“Tay. This Marshall.”

“Oh.” The voice got lower and was that embarrassment? Marshall wasn’t sure. He ignored the way his stomach did this stupid fluttery thing and how his breath kind of caught.

“You a’aight? How you doing?”

“I’m fine.” A pause inserted itself and Marshall waited for Tay to keep talking. “I slept most of yesterday and part of today. I got up when I realized the reason I felt nauseous was because I hadn’t eaten since…” he sensed Tay grope for a day. “Awhile.”

“It was my weekend with my daughter.”  
  
“I understand. I got the message.” He tried to get a handle on Tay’s emotions and couldn’t from the calm voice on the phone. If he was looking at him he could see. All he’d have to do was look in Tay’s eyes and read him.

“Look, I’m probably not gonna be over ‘till tomorrow. Maybe late,” he added, guilt making him shift on his feet.

He wasn’t avoiding Tay. He fucking wasn’t! DeVries was major, and if they didn’t get all they could now he didn’t want to take any chances that his court-appointed lawyer might get him sprung on bail since the only concrete thing they had was the rose-bush theft. Marshall wasn’t sure the spooked kid wouldn’t bolt. The fact that he had an attorney at all said a lot. Perps charged with misdemeanors didn’t usually warrant a public defender, but with suspicion of murder, or accessory to commit murder, the stakes got higher.

“Okay.” He heard the resignation then and chewed on his lip.

“We picked up someone.”

Silence filtered through the phone.

“Is it...” he heard the wobble in Tay’s voice and heard him take a deep breath. Then another. For a second he was scared Tay was starting to hyperventilate. “Is it him?”

“Naw. Thought it was, but I don’t think so. He knows shit, though.”

More silence. “You gonna be a’aight?” he asked again, even if he sounded like a broken record.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m having dinner with Ike, and I talked to Michelle. I’m okay.”

“A’aight. I gotta go.”  
  
“Bye.” The dial tone hit his ear before he could say anything else and he put the phone away wishing the quick way Tay hung up didn’t bother him.

*~*~*~*

They didn’t really get to talk to DeVries anymore that evening; his lawyer said he had to make ‘a few phone calls’ and they had to ‘discuss some aspects of the situation’ before they could meet again, and even though Marshall didn’t like it there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. The only reason the slimy little public defender hadn’t sprung his client on bail was if he did, that wouldn’t give any judge or media a good, long look at his fizz. Marshall wondered if DeVries even knew the slimy lawyer probably wasn’t thinking of his interests first, but that wasn’t his problem.

A missing set of DNA was his problem.

When Poblanski took a look at the name on the sheet and his eyes went round, Marshall realized they might have another problem.

The name on the sheet turned out to belong to the grandkid of one of the richest men in Michigan.

Dellamore came in and they told her.

Dellamore asked them to repeat themselves.

They did.

She looked like she aged five years right in front of their eyes.

“What about the guy we picked up?” She asked. Marshall didn’t really blame her for grabbing at straws, but he was itching to track down this new guy, to search his room, to start digging. He was trying not to kick himself for first focusing on the wrong guy and then letting the perp go.

“DNA don’t match.” Poblanski said. “Guy in the box knows something, but he ain’t talkin’ yet.”

“The physical profile of this other guy fits, chief.” Marshall pointed out even if she knew that. She had the printout right in front of her. “And why wouldn’t he turn over the sample like everyone else? Tells me he got something to hide.”

“I need more probable cause than this.”

“What for?” Marshall demanded in frustration. “We’ve gone in with less than that tons of times!”

“We haven’t been accusing Howard Stryker’s grandson of murder tons of times.” Dellamore snapped. “If we go in there and find nothing, the fallout won’t be good.”

“So ‘cause they’re rich the rules are different? That’s fucked up.”

“Mathers!” He ignored Poblanski’s pained exclamation and met Dellamore’s eyes which had turned the icy green of a glacier.

“Yes, Mathers. It is. However, it is more fucked up to lose backing for the police survivors’ scholarship fund and the childcare pool that’s been in existence ten years. Stryker Industries donates heavily to those causes. I won’t jeopardize that for anything less than proof. I can’t.”

Marshall looked away in frustration. He and Kim had actually used the childcare pool when Hailie was little and he hadn’t made detective yet. Kim had to work so they could make rent, and the pool had gotten Hailie into a decent daycare instead of leaving her with a relative or settling for one of the state-funded programs with thirty-five three-year-olds in one room.

“So we can’t get a search warrant? Talk to the family? Nothing?” Marshall demanded and Dellamore tapped her teeth with one of her expensive Waterman pens.

“Talk to DeVries more. See what he can give us. If—and ONLY if—that comes up empty then start digging into Lee Ransome’s background. Quietly. With _caution_.” She gave Marshall a pointed stare, and he did his best to look offended. “Talk to his work, his teachers. See what they say. See if anyone saw him the night of the last attack.”

That was all soft-pedaling the case and Marshall knew it, but at least she didn’t completely block them from investigating.

Besides, Marshall had an idea. He’d have to call in a few favors, but he could pull it off. If he did, they might have enough to get them a search warrant and a subpoena for the DNA sample.

 

Monday  
Roanoke Apartments  
6:27 p.m

Marshall pulled the beat to shit Camry into ‘visitor parking’ turned off the engine and sat back in the seat.

He felt drained and tired just from the last day.

He had so many pins in the air it felt like any minute they’d all come crashing down in bigass mess: track down Ransome’s school records, which proved to be a bitch since he went someplace back east that ‘protected the privacy of their students’; get a schedule of Ransome’s classes and talk to his professors; fax a picture of DeVries to the Warren Greyhound Bus Station to see if they could verify his alibi since they promised Dellamore they’d keep that option open. The skinny punk kept swearing he’d been there but, for some reason, kept evading the topic of where he’d been or what he’d been doing. See if Ransome had a locker at the University they could search if they hit on a maintenance guy for whom the badge still meant something, and track down DeVries locker at the greenhouse to get a look inside. That was just today.

And here he was at Tay’s after calling him twice more and having two more stilted as fuck conversations.

He could see the unmarked car from here and figured he better get out or it would look suspicious.

The whole way up he kept fighting the jittering of his stomach like he was a teenager.

He hadn’t really thought at all about that night, hadn’t _let_ himself think about it. Not too hard since he’d been up to his ass in shit since they picked up DeVries. Every time his mind tried to wander over or got flashes of what happened /eager mouth, skin like satin under his hands, tight hold and yes…YES…/ he refocused. Pushed harder. Drowned in the work.

Because work would save him. Work needed him. Work was what he’d always had. No matter what anyone said about him no-one, ever, could claim he left anything on the table when he went out there.

And nothing, he told himself as he used his key to get in, _nothing_ was worth losing that.

The sound of the piano drifted over as soon as he pushed open the door, and he thought the stereo was on until he heard Tay’s voice. He didn’t know how he knew it was Tay’s voice since he sure as shit didn’t listen to any of their music from before; maybe because no CD would have someone singing that low, almost a whisper over the crystal chords of the melody.

He gently shut the door and walked quietly down the small hall following Tay’s voice, breathing in the scent of something good cooking, which somehow didn’t really go with the kinda sad ballad Tay’s low voice coasted over. Marshall paused at the edge of the hall, still behind the wall a little, and watched.

Tay sat at the piano, eyes closed as he sang, long graceful fingers flowing over the keys, and that one escaped strand from the ponytail that held the rest of the flaxen and gold hair curled near his chin as he played. He knew he should say something, make some noise, but he didn’t want to interrupt the concentration on Tay’s face as those long, pale fingers brought music into the air and lifted Tay’s soft voice with it.

Marshall didn’t listen to this kinda music, never had. He’d grown up in the hood, cutting his teeth on early NWA and the Beastie Boys, and his tastes hadn’t ever changed. He had a couple of other CDs, mostly local talent like The White Stripes and Kid Rock, but that’s what he’d always liked. What Tay was doing in there felt different, though; personal. The words seemed to be about love one minute then friendship and loss the next, and it felt as if he laid all his feeling out on the keys, bare, no hiding.

He tried to imagine Tay at a piano in front of a stadium full of people and couldn’t really do it. Marshall couldn’t comprehend anyone leaving that much of themselves out in the open like that, let alone in front of hundreds of strangers. He wondered how Tay, this Tay, who didn’t read his fan mail and kept himself locked tight when he wasn’t blown wide open after crawling around killer’s heads, had ever done that.

The song ended, and Tay held the last note longer than the key played, head thrown back and eyes closed, and Marshall realized where DeVries got the expressions for some of those sex shots.

“That was dope.”

The cover slammed over the keys so loud Marshall jumped and Bill darted under the table. Tay's startled blue eyes stared into his, clear sky blue and less tired than he’d seen them in awhile, and Marshall felt a long, low, helpless sinking inside as he watched pink sprout on Tay’s cheeks.

He was in such fucking trouble.

“Sorry,” He offered as Tay slid off the piano stool wiping his hands on his jeans like he could erase the music he’d just made.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You don’t gotta stop.”

“I was just fooling around.” Tay shrugged walking into the kitchen in brisk steps that said ‘BACK OFF’ louder than if he’d yelled the words. “You said you’d be late.”

“Chief sent us home when we got bitchy.” He realized what he’d said when Tay gave him a quick glance, a small smile on his face.

“There’s meatloaf.” Tay said, opening the stove and letting out more delicious smells that got his stomach to growling and reminded him the Taco Bell from this afternoon had been a long time ago. “Salad, mashed potatoes, and broccoli.”

“Gravy?” Marshall picked up a lid to check and watched the softly bubbling brown liquid in the pan with the scent that reminded him of Thanksgiving at his Aunt Betty’s house the few times his mom and aunt weren’t disagreeing.

Tay reached up for the plates in the cabinets, with a wider, amused smile. “Yes, gravy.”

Marshall wondered how Poblanski would take it if he married Tay.

The thought and the way Tay’s t-shirt hitched up to reveal a stripe of creamy curved skin at his waist made Marshall clear his throat and look away until Tay handed him a plate with a crisp: “Serve yourself.”

“Where’s yours?” Marshall reached for the large fork to get a slab of meatloaf.

“I ate earlier.”

Marshall stopped and looked at him. Tay looked back for a few seconds then sighed and got another plate. Marshall was too busy scooping up mashed potatoes, which looked homemade to watch the creamy strip of skin.

*~*~*~*

He made himself stop after two platefuls and even ate the broccoli after Tay dripped melted cheese all over it: “My brother won’t eat it any other way, either.”

The backpack with paperwork rested by the sofa, but he let Tay suggest a movie, the anxious look in his eyes saying he thought Marshall would refuse.

Marshall didn’t.

They watched ‘The Avengers’, which had Marshall’s favorite actress Scarlett Johansson in it. It would help him a whole lot if he could think of her fine ass naked, but he didn’t.

They sat on the couch, relaxed, commenting on special effects and improbable plot twists once in awhile, and through it all Marshall thought, ‘Yeah, I can do this. We can just hang out. Thing was a fluke. That shit happens under stress, we can…’ Then Tay stretched out his arm across the sofa back and tilted his head on it, looking at the television.

The clean scent of Tay’s hair floated over to him and he closed his eyes. The memory of being nose deep in damp, soft strands while he thrust balls deep in Tay washed over him without warning. He knew if he turned his head he could bury his face there again and breathe him in. He shifted, instinctively tugging his jersey lower on his waist and sensed that Tay looked up. Marshall glanced over, the lure too strong, and he fell into the clear blue gaze.

His heartbeat tripped over itself at meeting Tay’s eyes, and he felt like a kid, like some teenager with a hard on and what he wanted plastered all over his face.

Because he’d promised himself, he’d been promising himself that what happened before couldn’t happen again. That he could be professional and still be here and he realized, now, how much fucking crap that was.

He stood before he thought about it, averting Tay’s troubled expression.

“It’s late.”

“The movie’s almost over.” Tay stood, too, running a hand through his hair, the first sign that he was nervous, agitated. Marshall recognized it now.

“Yeah.” Marshall snagged his untouched backpack from the floor and swung it on his shoulder. “I know.”

Tay followed him as he headed for the door and paused when Marshall turned around, so Marshall caught a glimpse of the disappointed, hurt look on his face before Tay ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. The hunched shoulders reminded Marshall so much of when Tay lost it that night that he moved closer, regret rising up in his chest, but he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t even risk touching him.

“Look, Tay…” he started quietly, and Tay shook his head, his hair flowing around his face, hiding it.

“Don’t,” he said just as quiet, and Marshall stared hard at the top of Tay’s head, the spill of hair, firm curve of biceps straining against the sleeves of the thin t-shirt and legs that went on forever. Jesus he wanted to touch him so fucking bad, to lay his hand over that dip in Tay’s spine and smooth his hair behind his ear because he _had_ , he’d been there, he’d owned all that long, lean flesh.

“I gotta go,” He whispered because that’s the only way he trusted his voice to stay steady.

“I know.” Did Tay move closer? Did he? He couldn’t tell but suddenly he could smell Tay’s hair again, smell Tay; soap and skin and clean. Tay wouldn’t look at him.

“We can’t,” he swallowed over the thickness in his throat, “be doing this.”

“I _know_ ,” Tay repeated intensely, voice still low, but dripping -- something, heat, want, and it seeped into Marshall’s conscious like something he could hold in his hand.

It took so little to lean in and brush his face in Tay’s hair, bare touch, but the scent exploded in his senses. He heard Tay’s quiet gasp and that spiked want in him too, everything did.

Tay crossed his arms, almost holding himself even as he moved closer by inches, gently nuzzled Marshall’s nose where it sniffed in Tay like he was cocaine.

Marshall’s breath sounded labored, shallow, and he didn’t know he’d closed his eyes until he opened them as he brushed his cheek against silk soft hair and saw the front of his jeans straining hard, no hiding now, for either of them. Their crotches were so close one step forward would bring them together, slide him into that hardness and heat that he remembered, and he wanted that, god, more than he’d wanted anything in so long.

He brushed his lips on Tay’s hair, so lightly, but Tay shivered from the touch, the puff of his breath almost too quiet to hear.

Then Tay turned his head the little bit it needed and closed his mouth around Marshall’s neck the same way he’d done that night: warmth, suction, and a little teeth, and every nerve in Marshall’s body lit up like a Christmas tree, and his backpack slid off his arm to thump on the ground.

He crushed Tay to him, control snapped, evaporated, and he tangled a hand in the fine blond strands, too hard, and pulled the evil mouth off his neck so he could look at Tay, take in the hectic flush, blazing, hungry blue eyes and rosy lips already swollen from kissing. Their breathing sounded harsh in the quiet, and the silky dark lashes dropped to his mouth.

“Please,” Tay whispered and Marshall kissed him hard before he could ask again.

Tay’s taste rolled through him, faint Cloves, coffee, the chocolate they’d had for dessert, and the first velvet slide of tongue almost killed him. The first handful of silk smooth ass under the t-shirt into the jeans felt so fine in his palms he made an embarrassing sound that got lost in the wetness of Tay’s mouth, and Marshall groped for the hardness pushing into his, pressing the heel of his hand down, and Tay’s breath stuttered in his mouth.

He didn’t know who started moving or when or even how because his mind just wasn’t dealing in words or thoughts. His brain kept tripping, shorting out because, Jesus fuck Tay’s skin was soft everywhere, _everywhere_ , and he strained and clung to Marshall like he couldn’t get close enough. The rubbing of their dicks through jeans and fabric didn’t matter, not one bit, because each brush, push, frantic thrust flashed sparks along his body that made him want to feel that touch for real, want to be buried deep in the tight, hot heat that his body remembered, oh yeah, and wanted and fucking demanded more with each passing second and was this why, he thought.

Was this why he’d heard fag jokes practically from the cradle on up, why most of the guys he knew turned from decent people to punks when they talked about it? Because it felt this fucking unbelievable, because he was no kid and he sure as fuck was no virgin but he felt like one, a virgin, a junkie, a kid with his first piece of tail. He wanted inside Tay so bad his hands wouldn’t quit shaking.

He yanked Tay’s shirt up as they stumbled, pulling blind, and Tay made a frustrated sound as he struggled to take it off because neither of them wanted to break contact. Finally Tay’s lips pulled away and he lifted the shirt off frantically. Marshall’s gaze swam over all the long, firm muscle and creamy skin and tight, dusky pink nipples that called for his mouth. Dipping his head while Tay struggled out of the t-shirt and they kept weaving backwards, Marshall licked at a pointy tip, and Tay jerked with a gasp.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered urgently, nails scratching up Marshall’s neck through the bristle of his hair to crush him down, harder and chill bumps rashed all up and down his arms because he loved that, he’d always loved how that felt and no-one ever did it enough. He switched sides and thanked god he was shorter than Tay, and Tay let out a rough moan when Marshall pulled at the petal soft skin with his lips and—

The back of the bed suddenly came up hard at their knees and they spilled back, way back, falling for so long he thought they were floating for a minute. Then he landed hard on Tay and knocked the air out him in a startled whoosh that clicked their teeth together.

“Shit!” he breathed, lifting up fast, but Tay just studied his face, eyes half-closed, blue heated and dark, lips stained pink from kissing, and he touched Tay’s face just to ground himself, to keep believing this was real.

“You feel good on me.” Tay whispered, breath moist against Marshall’s lips, and the words licked fire in him, curling up from where Tay’s long, slim legs parted for him, where their cocks strained. Then Tay nipped at his bottom lip, his chin, the sensitive underside of his jaw, and lust cut right through him, sharp as knives.

He crushed Tay’s mouth with his, too hard, but he couldn’t help that, couldn’t help the urgent growl that started in his throat when Tay scored his back with his nails pulling off his jersey, couldn’t help the bruises he probably grabbed into the soft flesh of Tay’s arms, his hips, the shallow dip of his stomach as Marshall fumbled with the goddamn, tiny stuck buttons of Tay’s 501s, and he really couldn’t help the rough grunt when Tay worked his hand between them and touched him there, again, like that, fingers just as sure and knowing as before.

Marshall pulled away from Tay’s mouth to pant because pulling off Tay’s jeans, thrusting into Tay’s strong, skilled fingers, and trying to breathe was just too much multi-tasking for all the rushing blood in his veins.

Tay had undone Marshall’s jeans with one hand so they shuffled loose around his hips, and he had a moment of admiration when Tay’s slim legs bent up, hooked his feet above the waist of his jeans, and slid them down Marshall’s hips in one smooth, slow, liquid move that left his legs tangled with Marshall’s. The rough feel of Tay’s jeans made him feel more naked than anything and he didn’t know how he ended up more naked first ‘cause that’s not the way things were supposed to go, that’s…

Tay caught his open mouthed lips in a kiss and hands, hands everywhere, sloping down his back, gripping his ass to grind them together and thoughts got spangled red behind his eyes as his dick slid under the curve of Tay’s hips, hard and leaking.

“Wait, wait a second…” Marshall panted levering himself up, which took all he had with Tay’s body screaming for his practically by his own name. If he didn’t step back just a little, though, he was gonna fuckin’ embarrass himself in a few minutes, all his nerves raw with need at Tay rubbing all that satin flesh all over him. He sat back on his heels and tried to breathe while turning to the bedside table and opening the drawer to take out the stuff they needed. He remembered Tay getting it out of there.

When he turned back, though, the sight made him stall, slow.

Tay lay there in the golden light of the bedside lamp, hair free and messy, arms spread out and legs on either side of Marshall like a goddamn feast, and he looked like all the beautiful shining things Marshall had never had. Creamy skin glowed, the muscles of his arms long and sweet, and the sparse dusting of ginger hair on his chest Marshall remembered from that day, that time he watched Tay jerk off and made himself look away, for all the good it fucking did him, because he’d still wanted. He’d tried not to look too long or too close, but he’d wanted the whole time, and now Tay was here, half naked and hard for him, and part of him still couldn't believe that was happening.

Marshall’s eyes riveted to the V of Tay’s open jeans, framing the ginger colored trail and sprout of curly hair and he gripped the loose material around Tay’s ankles and pulled, vision blurring a little when Tay lifted his hips so the flushed redness of his cock sprang free the minute the jeans cleared his hips. Marshall had them off, socks and all, in no time, and tossed them aside and then, Jesus, acres and miles of creamy golden skin.

Tay tilted his head where he lay, blue eyes getting unsure behind the hunger, but he held Tay’s eyes as he smoothed along Tay’s thighs, rubbed his calves and the soft little hairs there, as he rounded Tay’s kind of knobby knees, when his fingers found a raised line of skin on one of them, and Tay’s hungry eyes clouded for a second. He twitched his leg away and Marshall moved his hands sliding them down the line of thigh, over both sharp hip bones and shallow stomach until he slid over Tay like diving into a pool, and when Tay enclosed him in a velvet hold, legs tangled with his, arms around his neck, he had never felt anything like that.

Heat and strength and softness at once, and wet mouth opening into his and Tay’s hard on rubbing between them while Marshall’s dick slipped and slid in the damp heat down there, wanting.

He smeared his mouth along Tay’s jaw, the delicate tendons on his neck, quick nips to feel the give of muscle in his mouth, and Tay gave a ragged moan, arched his neck for better access. Marshall couldn’t stop touching, thrusting, moving at all because if he did he’d disintegrate in all the sensation and almost did when his hands burrowed under Tay’s spine, over ridges of back to the round, soft ass that sat in his palms like it belonged there.

/Condom/ his scattered brain spit out from habit, because he’d trained it to give him a red flag as he hung on the edge of pussy, every nerve reaching, straining. /And lube/

Marshall lifted up again, pulling off his mouth with effort because every time he sank into Tay’s lips he wanted to lie down and live there.

“I gotta… I should…”

“Yeah, this time you do,” Tay whispered against his ear, sparking shivers all up his spine.

For a second he wanted to ask, ‘What about last time?’ He’d wanted to last time, reached for it and didn’t get a chance; he'd gotten lucky the condom had come with a little slick.  Now he had the lube in his hand, on his fingers from the small plastic tube, and his mind did another wig out because he knew the point of no return when he saw it, and the clear, sticky  liquid shining on his hand was pretty much it. It didn’t matter that he’d done it before, that he’d been here before, because this was different, deliberate, and clear, and he didn’t have exhaustion or emotion as an excuse.

Except he had no time, no time for contemplating his new and exciting sexual orientation because Tay hitched a leg up on his shoulder, ankle resting on the slope of his clavicle, and Marshall stared at the line of his leg, the hard, flushed erection and rounded curves of his ass, and he couldn’t believe he’d been in any place that small.

“You won’t hurt me.” Tay touched his face, rubbing on his lips with one thumb, and Marshall took him at his word.

He spread the slick liquid around, between Tay’s ass, up behind his cock and around both sacks so Tay caught his breath and squirmed and then, eyes on Tay’s face, he pushed on that small, dark bit of flesh, hard then harder, and Tay exhaled slowly as his lids fluttered shut. Marshall almost felt Tay’s body relax against him, a physical release of tension, and Marshall’s finger sank in, knuckle by knuckle, deep and smooth.

It felt a hundred degrees hotter in there, clasping and tight, and his own breath suddenly sounded loud and harsh in the silence, his hand gripping Tay’s shoulder and part of his hair as he watched their connection, moved out slow even if Tay’s body clung to him, and shoved in harder. Tay arched with a moan, gripping handfuls of comforter, toes curled like a ballet dancer, and Marshall thought he’d hurt something until Tay’s deep, sex drenched voice said, “<i>Yes</I>.” He did two on the next slide and Tay rocked down, took it eagerly, so hot and tight in there, holding his fingers in, and Marshall’s cock was leaking non stop, all over his legs, the bed, just from watching him.

“Curl,” Tay gasped, every tendon taut now, hands scrabbling on the bed, “Them up.” Marshall rotated his hand, palm up and crooked to push against something tiny, round, and Tay shuddered, every muscle straining, chin thrown back and the curve of throat patchy with sweat and blush. It was the most erotic sight Marshall had ever seen.

Tay suddenly bunched his abs, one leg still hooked over Marshall’s shoulder and tugged Marshall higher with one hand, the other hand suddenly bringing a foil condom packet to his puffy lips and tearing it open. Marshall didn’t even try to protest because he couldn’t help and wasn’t sure he could manage to slip it on his cock with the same quick, efficient moves Tay used. One second it was in his hand the next Marshall had it on.

“Now, come on,” Tay muttered in his ear, the feverish urgency doing incredible things to his mind, and he hated it when women got all specific, like he was parking a car, but this wasn’t the same thing. Tay’s voice dripped lust all over his skin, breathy and frantic. It sounded like sin.

“Yeah,” he breathed, already hitching Tay’s other leg on his elbow, rubbing his face against Tay’s warm, bony knee. He couldn’t believe how far Tay could bend and not even look like it hurt him.

When he felt Tay press down with his hips, brow furrowed in concentration, felt himself find that space, the give there, he thrust once and slid in balls deep. The breath tore out of him in surprise, and he held Tay’s rapidly blinking crystal blue eyes as he tried to go deeper, tried to get closer to all the tight heat. The hand with lube felt tacky on Tay’s skin and his feet were hanging off the bed and he hated that but none of it mattered; none of it even computed.

All he could see was the look in Tay’s eyes, all he could feel was their bodies’ moving against each other as they searched for tempo, reached for it, and then they found it. He felt it when they did, the cadence falling into place, the pulse matching the quick beat of his heart in his ears, matching the puffs of his breath.

He closed his mouth along Tay’s chin, his jaw, as Tay held on tight, hands fists on his back, nails biting into him and he barely felt it.

A roll of hip harder, hitch of Tay’s hips higher and Tay spasmed in his arms, breath suddenly uneven, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh, god, oh,” he mumbled in the broken way from that night, hands holding tighter to Marshall’s shoulders. “Marshall, ah.”

He thrust hard, twice, and Tay’s eyes flew open frantic and hectic, pleading into his.

“Kiss me and I’ll come.” He cut off the hurried whisper, but Tay was gone before their lips met, thrashing and moaning, slickness between them, body deep pink and so hot Marshall felt burned as he thrust in, and Jesus, he loved this, his strung out, wrecked mind swore.

He loved Tay right after, relaxed in his arms, eyes half shut and drowsy, long legs bouncing as he thrust. Marshall cried out as he came, buried his face in Tay’s damp sweat drenched hair, and held on as his body exploded with sensation that came on and on and carried him away.

*~*~*~*~*

  
He came to like that first time, passed out on Tay and them stuck together, Tay’s arm over his neck and the condom still on.

/Classy/ he thought as he carefully rolled off, wincing at the tackiness on their stomachs.

He swore he never passed right out after sex like he did with Tay. All he ever remembered was coming and then nothing until he woke up in his arms, cheek against the soft ginger hairs on Tay’s chest, the slow rhythm of Tay’s heart under his ear. If it weren’t for the condom he’d stay there, too.

Sitting up he threw the condom in the small wastebasket by the bed and peered at the clock; it was after midnight.

And he had to pee.

Glancing at Tay as Tay started to stir Marshall walked to the bathroom. He looked at himself as he washed his hands and wiped come off his stomach because it had started to itch.

His black eye was better, he didn’t look as beat down and tired except for the short strands of his hair sticking up all crazy, and lots of little bite marks dotted his shoulders and chest. His mouth looked swollen, too, red around the edges. He looked like he’d been laid.

/One time’s a fluke. More than once. That’s for real/

He’d stood here and thought that three nights ago. Now he had to decide if it was true.

When he got back Tay had laid down with his head on the pillow, curled up on his side and the cream colored sheet, only a few shades darker than his skin, pulled up to his waist. He wasn’t asleep, Marshall knew. He could tell from the still tension in Tay’s shoulders.

He pulled back the covers and slipped inside.

Tay didn’t seem to be moving at all, and Marshall’s body, already drowsy from before and the marathon work sessions from the weekend, wanted to spoon like they had that night. Without thinking his hand had already reached for the curve of Tay’s hip, thumbing the sharp bone and smoothing with his palm.

Tay had one of the world’s most fantastic asses, his sleep fuzzy mind decided.

Tay turned on his back a little, glancing over his shoulder with a tentative look in his eyes.

“You’re staying?” His voice had the husky sound it got right after sex, and Marshall’s dick twitched a little.

“Yeah.” Marshall closed his eyes then opened them. “Can you set the alarm for six?”

“Okay.” Tay kept staring at him, and something finally hit his tired head.

“I don’t gotta. I can…” he’d already started moving away, but Tay just turned around and shuffled his ass back into Marshall’s waist, Tay’s big feet already cozying behind Marshall’s cold toes. He felt Tay thread their hands together and called himself a great big girl for snuggling in close and nosing his face into the warm space behind Tay’s neck to breathe in the scent of skin and sex.

‘Alarm’ he meant to insist again, but every muscle in him had checked out once Tay eased next to him, and he drifted off before the words ever happened.


End file.
